


Bloodhound

by Lover_of_all_things_Pat



Series: Bloodhound [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bloodhound - Freeform, Bloodhound AU, Bloodhound Dean, Caring Sam Winchester, Carnivore, Collared Dean Winchester, Conditioned Behavior, Dean Winchester as a demon's pet, Dean is not a dog, Dean x Demon?, Demon, Domestication, F/M, Family Discord, Feral Behavior, Gen, I suck at tags, Injured Dean Winchester, Jess Lives, Jess and Sam and Brady, Jessica and Tyson, Jessica deserves a bigger role, John Winchester cares but he sucks at showing it, John and Sam must work together to aid Dean, Kidnapped Dean Winchester, Liz_plot device, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Ownership of Dean Winchester, Panic Attacks, Pavlov's dogs, Pet Dean, Psychology, Rating May Change, Singer's Salvage Yard, Stanford, Sulfur, Tyson Brady - Freeform, blindfold, but I think the story is good, carrot and stick training method, chairs as training tools, chew toys for the win, conscious abandonment of speech, dead rabbit abuse, deadman's blood as poison, demon may care, first fic, for the love of cups, give me chair or give me death, human-mongrel, marking territory, mindless obedience versus mindful obligations, missing Dean Winchester, now a mini series, pavlovian responses, possible affair, sam and jess, screw the rules, socially acceptable Stockholm syndrome, strained familial relationship, time to burn bitch, understanding in repetition, winchester curse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-06-24 17:04:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15634986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lover_of_all_things_Pat/pseuds/Lover_of_all_things_Pat
Summary: Sam left for Stanford. Dean and John continued to hunt- at least, that was the plan... John and Sam reunite with the announcement that Dean has been missing. What they find is surprising.[AU featuring Bloodhound Dean]





	1. Chapter 1

  
Stanford was everything it was supposed to be. An escape. Freedom. A normal side of life that came with normal stress and normal solutions. Friends, studying, and Jessica... Perfection sought and grasped within a realm of the mundane.

Sam Winchester, former hunter and current student. Prelaw, and all the fancy words that come along with it. He'd gotten out of the hunting life, and there really was happiness to be found in spite of his former theory that he'd be forever cursed simply because of his surname and the family he was brought up with.

No, he wasn't cursed. There were no curses, as far as he was concerned. Sure, he couldn't help keeping a bit of salt handy, and there was something iron in every room, a jar of holy water under his bed- that was just precaution. (It's not like he slept with a gun under his pillow... anymore.)

Jess had laughed and called him ' _silly and superstitious_ ,' and he never bothered to correct her, deciding to take the jibe in stride and laugh along with her. No one thought he was weird. No one knew about his bloody past or the monsters that were lurking in the night. No one asked, and he never told. As far as they knew, there was nothing to tell.

Normalcy was a thing, and he was embracing it.

Until that one night...

It was a night for celebration for him and Jess. Honestly, he couldn't recall who got what scores, but he knew he did well. He always did exceptional. Gifted, some called him, but he always shot back a smile and a line similar to: "Not gifted. Just pretty damn lucky. And maybe gifted." And they'd laugh and make toasts over drinks, empty words between drinks and drinks between empty words, and so much laughter that other people might assume they were all hopped up on some substance or another.

But, no.

Never any substance, other than a bit of alcohol. And even then, Sam never drank to get drunk. Never wanted to really drown himself or lose spatial awareness.

That night, when he was with Jess, it was going to be a simple movie night. He was getting a quick shower while she set up a movie (her choice, so he'd be surprised) and made popcorn. She was bouncing around in a sheer top and short shorts, humming to herself while she spilled popcorn from the bag and into the bowl before dousing it with too much salt.

She was swaying her hips to a jaunty tune, halting with mild surprise as a knock sounded on the door, heavy and strangely foreboding.

She supposed one of their friends might be dropping by, to offer congratulations or something.

Sam was still in the shower. Jess could hear the water running.

She casually strolled over, unlocked and opened the door- just a crack at first, to get a peek at the person on the other side, and then the rest of the way when she saw the older man. He was tall and rugged, dark hair and 5 o'clock shadow. The leather jacket seemed to both make him larger and weigh him down, but he did not seem intimidating. His eyes held a glint of determination.

"Um, can I help you?" she asked, voice polite as she looked him over with a scrutinizing gaze, unsure if she should invite him in or slam the door.

"Sam. I need to see Sam Winchest-" he was speaking, but his throat closed off when he saw the young man in question come into view, dressed from the waist down and in the middle of pulling a shirt over his still-wet, shower-fresh body.

"Dad?" Sam questioned as he came closer, snaking his arms around Jess and resting his chin on her shoulder. Holding her, he stepped back, guiding her further into their abode and allowing his paternal figure to enter. "It's, uh, been awhile." He cleared his throat before deciding to get the introductions out of the way.

That was the normal thing to do, anyway. Introduce his girlfriend to his father. That's what normal people did.

"Dad, this is Jessica, my girlfriend. Jess, this is John, my dad."

Smiling kindly in an attempt to break up the stale atmosphere, Jess pulled away from Sam's embrace to offer a hand out to John.

John met her hand with a firm shake and took a second to look her over.

Nails, not claws. Pale, but sun-kissed enough not to be undead. Warm-blooded. No sulfur stench...

" _Christo_."

... Normal eyes and teeth.

The girl appeared human as far as John could tell without dousing her in holy water and cutting her with a silver blade.

"Nice to meet you," John said, voice tight, like he had something else on his mind that he wanted to bring up. His gaze slid over to meet that of his son's. "Sam..."

"Dad," Sam countered. He paused and offered Jess a strained smile, silently asking for a moment of privacy. Jess politely excused herself and Sam's eyes hardened. "What brings you here? A hunt? I told you, I'm done with-"

"Your brother went missing," John cut in, not giving his youngest son a chance to give the old tired speech of wanting to be free from the hunter's lifestyle.

Sam fell silent. "Dean..." The word came out as a mere whisper. His brows knit together, he worked the simple statement through his mind, analyzing it as much as possible.

His brother- Dean- went missing.

That is not to say that Dean was _still_ missing.

Dean _went_ missing.

John showed up in the middle of the night, no warning, to tell him that Dean went missing.

"Is he-"? Sam wasn't sure how to finish the sentence. Is Dean dead? Is he okay? What happened? When did it happen?

Jess chose that moment to come back, carrying popcorn in and setting it on the table. She was humming again and looked ready to head back to the kitchen to continue to give them privacy, but she was also stepping in to remind them of her presence- to offer Sam support. She knew his relationship with his father was rough and conflicting.

"Your brother is on a hunting trip," John said, eyes boring into Sam's and ignoring the blonde woman. "And he hasn't been home in a few days."

Sam thought the words over briefly before preparing a rebuttal. Because, he wasn't about to fall for a stint meant to pull him back. He got out, and he was staying out.

But John only repeated: "...on a hunting trip, and he hasn't been home in a few days."

It was a code. Translated to mean that there was something really wrong.

 _Hunting_ , there was definitely a hunt involved. And Dean's disappearance. And if John had come to Sam for help, then it was serious.

He talked to Jess, telling her that he wouldn't be long but needed to check in on his brother. Family matters, he told her. He'd be back, he assured her, soon. Really soon, he assured himself.

He and John got in the truck and left together, the road rolling beneath them as they kept silent.

That silence was broken by John's confession: "Your brother went missing a year ago. At first, I thought he was just fussing, throwing a fit and acting out. Then I figured, maybe he'd gone to visit you, but he hadn't; he wouldn't have left his stuff. He didn't come back, and I couldn't find him. Bobby couldn't find him. Other hunters couldn't find him."

Sam was holding his breath, listening, afraid to breathe in case his breath was too loud and he missed something important.

"I had to come get you, Sammy, because I think I might have found him. And I think it's bad." John said nothing more.

Quietly, the younger Winchester came back with: "It's _Sam_. Not Sammy."

His dad didn't have the right to use the endearing nickname. Not after the way they parted on bad terms. Not after revealing that his older brother had been missing for so long. Not after a lifetime of bullshit.

But, he swallowed down all his negative feelings, taking a deep breath and focusing on Dean.

Dean had been missing for over a year. Odds are, that year wasn't all puppies and rainbows. And Sam needed to be there to help however he could.

...

_-Dean-_

It was dark. Always dark, unless...-

He didn't bother opening his eyes when he knew it was pointless; he hated the way his eyelashes brushed against the thick band that kept him blinded.

It was cold. Always cold. His bare feet against the concrete, toes curling just to feel the texture beneath him; there were straps adjacent to both ankles, but they were undone because he had earned that freedom. His wrists were given the same blessed relief: the restraints open to give his hands and arms free motion, but he never acted on any impulse because he had no desire to reach for anything.

The collar on his neck felt heavy; the interior was lined with little barbs that cut into his throat if he got too active or even swallowed too hard. But he didn't mind. He was used to that. He was used to the hard chair and restraints and collar and blindfold. He was used to the cold, the stale air.

He was used to the stench of blood.

Without being able to see it, he knew there was a table nearby, on which was a bowl filled with copper-scented liquid.

It was tempting.

Dean was hungry, and the blood was tempting.

But, that blood was also rotten.

Poison.

Deadman's blood.

Sick, vile poison. Taunting him.

He'd learned this the hard way. He was allowed small freedoms when his handler deemed fit. He'd be fed when his handler had given him permission. Other than that, he was left alone. Hungry, and alone, waiting for his handler to come back to him. Come back and give him food.

The deadman's blood on the table- a temptation. A cruel joke meant to remind him of his hunger.

He needed his handler. And, in order to gain her attention, he needed to behave.

Thus, he would not remove the blind without permission. He would not leave the chair- restraints or no restraints- he would stay put. He would not trash the room in a fit of restlessness or rage, and he would not make an attempted escape.

Minutes, hours, days, weeks, months... all amounts of time blended into a seamless tapestry that he refused to focus on. Instead, he tried to reign in his hunger and hold onto a sense of patience.

He ignored the ache and clench in his gut, demanding food.

His handler- his mommy- she would come back for him.

...

"This is it," John said as he parked the truck. He missed the Impala, but it had been out the picture since Dean had gone missing. Vandalized, taken to Singer's Salvage Yard in hopes it could be restored. John would have done it himself, but he was too focused on other things to bother repairing the car.

John got out of the truck, Sam followed suit.

Just on the outskirts of some small suburb with a backline of wooded area and a tire swing, the house looked inconspicuous enough. The siding was faded, one side tinged with algae growth from humidity and moisture. The shutters needed painted, the roofing shingles were mismatched from a recent repair. The lawn was a week or two overdue for being tended. All in all, it wasn't too bad. Two-story, nice enough with a lived-in feel.

John scoped the place, looking and listening, drawing on instinct. Each step was carefully measured, silent and purposeful as any predator.

Sam took in their surroundings as well, but he was less intent on searching for monsters and more attuned to his own musings. In the back of his mind he imagined two kids outside, brothers, possibly playing on the swing. An older brother pushing a younger brother, both laughing before a dismount and subsequent game of two-man tag, where neither boy wins but both make up excuses and new rules to keep it entertaining. There'd never be a real winner, but both would find a way to score imaginary points that neither would boast out loud. Instead, victory would be won and gloated with big smiles and playful shoves and silly nicknames. Victory would be shared. Meanwhile, inside, a maternal figure would be pulling a fresh homemade pie out of the oven and setting it in the windowsill to cool. It would be apple, or blueberry, or something. Something delicious and seasonal, heavy with spices and a fancy lattice crust. Dean would love it; he was such a sucker for pie. And their dad- the paternal figure in this impossible picket-fence scenario- would be just coming home from work, the Impala rolling up and stopping, the father getting out and shouting a light-hearted greeting to his boys before heading inside. The family of four would prep for dinner, eat and talk about their day. The kids would be chastised for elbows on the table and talking with their mouths full. The father would talk about a normal job while the mom spoke of her day as well, everyone talking and smiling and then getting eager for the pie...

Sam came out of his reverie, forced from his impossible little fairytale when John clapped him on the shoulder and gave the broad expansion a tough squeeze. "Outside looks clear. From what I know, this place has been devoid of any activity for about a week."

The younger Winchester frowned in thought. "You said Dean might be here. If no one has come in or out for over a week, and if you weren't sure to begin with, then how do you know-"

"I got a call, Sam. I got call, and I was given the damn address."

"But, how can you-" Sam wanted answers. Always inquisitive, never one to blindly follow orders, he needed to know exactly what was going on and how John got his information. With so many empty blanks and not enough intel, it just didn't add up. He hated being left in the dark.

Worse, Sam hated that his father expected him to just accept every word as fact without question or preamble.

John pinched the bridge of his nose in a show of frustration. "A psychic, Sam. I went and seen Pamela. She pulled out the talking-board and- Dammit, Sam! I know Dean is in there. I know this situation is bad. And the only reason I bothered to come get you from your fancy college is that she said you might be the only one who can get through to him."

Sam stood, dumbfounded at first but realization slowly crept up on him before crashing over him like waves.

His father didn't want or need him for this. John Winchester had no desire or intent on coming to get Sam, nor was he going to inform him about Dean's disappearance. If not for Pamela, Sam wouldn't have a clue what was going on.

Sam was outraged. Anger tore through him like the claws of a wendigo. Frustration and betrayal shook his core like the shriek of a banshee.

In that moment, he could only reaffirm that he hated his father.

He should have stayed back with Jess. They had been celebrating. They were going to watch witty movies and eat popcorn, curled up on the couch like a loving couple. Instead, he was out there with his father, remembering how suffocating it was before he had the balls and means to finally leave.

The only downside to leaving, was knowing that he'd be leaving his big brother behind.

The big brother who had taken care of little Sammy when he was sick, who fed and cared for him for as long as he could remember. Who stole presents and snacks and tried to hide the fact that they were living impoverished.

Big brother Dean, who had once been Sam's whole world.

Dean, who went missing.

Dean, who might need Sam's help right now.

It's that last thought that he focuses on.

The youngest Winchester took a deep breath and collected himself. He turned an angry glare on his father and stated bluntly: "You lost Dean. I'm getting him. If he's in that house and I'm the one to pull him out, he's going back with me and Jess." Sam's voice was hard and confident. He meant what he said. Hunting was dangerous, and he'd seen his brother hurt far too many times. And now, he'd been abducted by God-knows-what. Sam wouldn't stand for it. Not again. Not anymore.

John took a breath of his own, squared his shoulders and puffed out his chest, looking and playing the part of the alpha male. Sam was taller, but John was older, seasoned, experienced. And he would not be cowed. "Dean isn't just your brother; he's my son. And I'll damn well do what I want with him. Between you and me, who do you think he'll listen to? What do you think he'll want to do?"

"He's probably hurt," Sam admonished. "He needs a stable home."

"He wants to hunt. It's what he was born to do," John shot back.

"No, he wasn't born to do it. You raised him to do it."

"I kept him safe. I prepared him to be safe. You ran away, Sam! You left. You tore him apart, and he got a little sloppy."

"Don't turn this around on me. You lost him, dad. You couldn't protect mom. You lost me, and then you lost Dean." The moment Sam's words came out, he wished he could take them back.

No one spoke about Mary. Ever. It just wasn't done.

The words fell around the Winchesters like a tossed gauntlet, staining everything heavy and ominous. Silence loomed and no one had the gall to cut through it with more words. Speech had become a toxin between the two.

It was John that moved first, turning away from his son and walking towards the house. His stride was even, but his feet fell like anvils. Hard and steady.

Sam watched his father walk up and test the lock on the door. When the door didn't budge, John procured a lockpick and Sam followed behind. The door opened and Sam quietly shut it once they both entered.

The interior looked well enough. Modern blended with modest. Pastel blues and off shades of white. Simple and clean with an underlying stench of something dead.

Both Winchesters shared a look before splitting up to search the house.

Sam hit the upstairs while John proceeded to explore first level. Both turning up empty, they regrouped beside a door that would presumably lead to a basement.

John's hand hovered over the silver knob but did not grasp it right away. He could feel a chill emanating from the knob. Beyond the door, surely, it was freezing. He glanced at Sam. "In here," he said, voice softer than he meant it to be.

Sam nodded and looked at the knob, watching as his father's hand closed around it.

John rattled it and cursed at it being locked from a deadbolt on the inside.

"I can't pick this. Someone in there had to have locked it," John grumbled, teeth grinding by means of abating stress. That left so many implications and just as many questions.

Were they really alone in the house? Was Dean even down there? What reeked of death?

What if the psychic had been wrong?

Those questions and more rolled through John's head while Sam took a good look at the door.

"We can try the hinges, or cut into the wall," Sam speculated.

Cutting into the wall would be louder, but faster. If something other than the Winchesters were present, it had to be aware of them already, so it hardly mattered if they were stealthy.

"In the truck, get my ax."

Wordlessly, Sam moved to do just that. He left the house and headed to the truck, looked in the back and grabbed the requested item before returning to the house, picking up speed as it really, truly dawned on him that they were about to rescue his missing brother.

Meeting up with the older hunter once more, Sam handed over the weapon.

John reared back, took a vicious swing at the wall and watched the wood split near the deadbolt. He swung again and again until there was no longer a section of wall to encase the lock. The door was heavy, but it pushed open easily enough, letting in a sharp, biting cold that rivaled a walk-in freezer.

It opened up to a set of stairs and a room that was made up almost entirely of concrete.

A perpetual icebox lit by a single, naked bulb.

John shouldered the ax and took the stairs; Sam flanked.

The center of the room held a wooden table that was bolted down. It was mostly empty, save for a bowl, a blade, and a few leather straps. But that wasn't what caught either Winchester's attention.

Across from that table, more towards the corner of the room, was a chair with a tall back and open restraints. In that chair sat a familiar form, face mostly obscured by a wide black blind and neck encased in thick shiny metal.

John and Sam both stood, silent, watching, staring, uncertain.

It was cold. The collared young man should be shivering, unless his body was shutting down.

Both Winchesters shared a conspiring look before John moved to the left and Sam moved to the right, both closing in on the blinded and collared young man.

As they neared, it was John who spoke first. "Dean?" he tried the name.

The figure in the chair reacted immediately, arching up and whipping his head to the side to face the speaker. His body struggled, arms and legs straining as if the straps had been latched tightly- yet they were so clearly undone.

Sam watched, silent still, frowning as he took this into account. The blinded and collared young man (Dean?) was obviously used to being restrained, to the point where he didn't dare tug unnecessarily.

"Talk to me, Dean," John tried again, taking a step closer. He still held the ax, in case this wasn't Dean. In case this was less of a son and more of a monster.

The young man's mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. The room was freezing, but the young man panted like an overheated dog in distress.

"Dean," John added, voice growing loud and stern, commanding. "If you can hear and understand me, you speak to me right now."

Sam moved in for a better look, still silent, watching.

The young man arched his back further, tossing his head back as a wet, throaty whine tore from his chapped lips.

John grimaced and looked away. He couldn't imagine anything human making such a sound. "Sam," he said, lowering his voice to something less commanding and more instructional. "Help me strap him down."

"But dad-" Sam tried to protest. He didn't like the idea. This could be Dean. This could be his brother, and John wanted to strap him down like some psychotic monster?

"Sam," John's voice boomed, leaving no room for argument. "For his safety and ours, help me strap him down. Then we can remove the blind and see what we're dealing with."

Grudgingly, Sam complied. Both him and John quickly and efficiently set to work securing the straps, starting with the wrists and then moving to the ankles.

The young man didn't resist. Instead, he slumped back in his seat, almost appearing relaxed once he was tied down.

Without warning, John reached over, slipped his thumb between flesh and the fabric of the blindfold and ripped off the offending material.

Beneath the naked bulb in the too-cold room, the face of Dean Winchester came into full view. His hair was matted; his eyes were wide and his mouth was open to drag in deep ragged breaths.

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed his brother's name, worry hitting him hard and making him yearn to comfort his older sibling.

John held up a hand, gesturing for Sam to halt his advance. "We need to know what we're dealing with. Can't have you getting bitten if he's been infected by something." He turned his attention fully to his newfound son. "Dean, can you speak?"

Dean opened and closed his mouth, trying to work out syllables, but he only managed an unsettling hacking sound. Something between a grunt and a cough.

"Dad..." Sam nodded towards Dean. "Maybe it's the collar."

John glanced at the metal and frowned. He set the ax down and reached for the metal band but stopped short as his bound son began to thrash and whine.

"Sam," John said after a moment of contemplation, "I'll hold his head still; you work on getting the collar off." The plan wordlessly agreed upon, he placed his hands on either side of Dean's head, holding firm while Sam closed in and allowed his own hands to search the metal ring for some kind of clasp or lock.

It wasn't held by any traditional latch; instead, both ends were hitched with a simple S hook. Sam easily pulled the S free and grabbed the metal ring with the intent to remove it. Just as his fingers wrapped around the metal, Dean's entire body stiffened and he let out a long, sorrowful sound similar to a howl. Sam's hands stilled and he inspected the collar further, frowning when he found that most of the collar had jagged spikes on the inner lining, and a fair portion had not only been embedded in Dean's flesh- rather, the flesh had begun to grow and heal around the barbs. Realizing this, Sam immediately released the collar.

"It's... I can't remove it. It'll rip his skin." Sam's voice portrayed his worry.

"Then we'll bandage him up," John said, sounding impatient and frustrated, almost callous. His son could put up with a bit of pain if it meant a successful rescue from whatever torment he'd been enduring.

Reluctantly, Sam began to pull and ease the metal away from his brother's throat. "Shhh, I've got you, Dean," Sam tried to soothe, but his words seemed to fall of deaf ears.

Dean writhed and twisted, his eyes were wide. He appeared to be looking every which and way but not seeing anything. Or, if he did see anything, he wasn't processing it.

Sam tried to be careful, offering soft, soothing sounds as he inched the metal away one barb at a time.

John shook his head at Sam's method. "Like a bandaid, Sam, like a bandaid," he instructed, letting his hands slip, one moving to fist Dean's hair and the other moving to grip the collar; he ripped the metal off, leaving an unsightly gash across Dean's throat. He tossed the metal ring, simultaneously releasing his grip on the young man's hair. Then he grabbed at the hem of his shirt, ripping off an expansion of it and pressing it to the open wound. He had to staunch the blood flow, though, the wound didn't look as bad as he thought it would.

Still, Dean whined and thrashed and gurgled like an animal, his entire body stiff and pulling this way and that.

"I was getting it, you asshole," Sam glared at his father with something akin to raw hatred. "Dean deserved better than that."

"Dean can take it," John said with a haughty air of finality. He kept the pressure of the cloth against his injured son's throat, his other hand moving to pet the unkempt hair atop Dean's head. It was a soothing action, for both of them, while John mentally assessed the situation and tried to figure up the best course of action.

Sure enough, Dean's distressed sounds quieted and he fell lax, his head pushing against John's petting hand for comfort; he breathed through the pain and seemed to calm down. His eyes darted back and forth, never really focusing on one place.

The cloth was removed and discarded when the blood began to coagulate enough not to be problematic.

"Dean," Sam said softly, ever observant and concerned for his brother. "Can you look at me?" Dean's eyes flicked over to Sam, but they moved to something else just as fast. "Dean, come on. Listen. Focus. Look at me."

Dean arched up, stiffening, the tendons in his hands, feet, and neck were taut but his eyes settled on Sam.

"Very good, Dean," Sam praised, glad to have at least gotten his brother to focus. "Dean, can you-"

Sam had to say Dean's name. Had to make sure Dean understood. Had to assure himself that this was, indeed, his brother. It was important. It felt important.

But John's priorities were aligned a little differently, and he voiced such. "Sam, let's get him and go. We'll get him somewhere safe, then we'll work with him. Here, it's not safe. Whoever or whatever had him, they could come back."

Just then, a loud whistle sounded from behind.

Both John and Sam turned to the source to find a young woman standing at the top of the stairs, smiling invitingly. She was pale and pretty, dark hair and red lips. Sinful in the way that movie stars tend to be.

"I see you've found my little pet," she said, voice sickly sweet, too sweet. "Charming, isn't he? He's even housebroken. He likes long walks on short leashes, and he loves his mommy, yes he does." As she spoke, her words escalated into a childish lilt, like people use when they talk to babies or small dogs. "Who's a good boy?" she called loudly, words directed at Dean.

Much to John and Sam's surprise and abhorrence, Dean responded to the woman's call with his head raised as high as he could, eyes wide and alert, attention focused solely on her. Like a well trained dog standing at attention.

This was his handler. His mommy. The one who brought him food and petted his head. The one who changed his clothes and said nice things to him... even when he didn't always understand her words. She said nice things. Mommy was his handler, and she was nice. She smelled like food, and he ate out of her hand sometimes.

"My sweet, sweet boy," the woman cooed.

Dean straightened just a bit more and moved his mouth in silent greeting. Had he been a dog and not bound, he'd probably run and prance at her feet.

John growled lowly, teeth bared, anger radiating from him like a force all its own. "What did you do to him?"

Sam moved to stand and block Dean from the woman's direct view, his own expression mirroring that of his father's. His eyes glanced toward the table. There was a bowl of blood, but there was also a blade. He could grab the blade, and he'd be armed...

The woman seemed too cheerful as she replied to John's questioning. "Oh? He's alive, if that's what you mean," the answer was punctuated with a delightful cackle. "But, that little part of him that is sentient- the part that separates him from an animal- it's a little less present. And he's been such a good boy for me."

Dean seemed to hone in on the praise and excitement in the woman's voice and his own eyes shone brightly in response. He curled his toes and arched in his seat to show his eagerness and elation.

"Now, are you two going to stand in the way, or can I feed my pet? He must be hungry. And you bloodied him all up, so he'll need a bath too."

Dean seemed to understand her better than he understood his brother and father. At the mention of 'feed' and 'hungry' his mouth fell open and he salivated shamelessly, awaiting some form of nourishment.

Sam looked at John, unsure of what to do. John returned the look and shook his head. "We kill the bitch, then take him home. We'll figure things out from there."

Sam nodded but made no attempt to move. John had the ax. Sam was unarmed, not counting the blade on the table and the small knife he kept on him as a precaution- but it would be of little use until they at least knew what the woman was.

A vampire? A ghoul? Demon? Something else?

John is betting demon. At least, that's his guess when her eyes flash black and all the straps on Dean's chair unbuckle on their own accord.

Realization hits hard, for both John and Sam.

This was a demon. A demon that had abducted Dean and held him captive for over a year, treating him like some kind of pet.

The woman- no, the demon- whistled again and held her arm up high to showcase something dead. A small animal carcass. "C'mon, boy. C'mon. Come get your treat. You've been such a good boy..."

In a flash, Dean rose from he chair, bypassed the other Winchesters and dropped to kneel at the base of the steps, eyes wide and hands pulled close to his chest, like a dog that was... begging.

With a pleased smile and an amused laugh, the demon dropped the carcass and it was caught between a set of very human teeth.

Dean held the dead animal in his mouth and shook it back and forth, as if playing with a toy. Blood ran down his chin and throat, but he paid no mind, looking perfectly content to sit there with what appeared to be a deceased rabbit caught between his jaws.

"You said he was alive," John hissed.

Sam said nothing, staring, horrified, at the sight of his brother.

"Oh, he's alive and well... and happy. Best of all, he's still human." The demon laughed again, wiping an imaginary tear from her eye. "He just doesn't know it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first Supernatural story. Not sure how good it is, but I love the idea


	2. Chapter 2

  
There should be war, vengeful and aggressive, angry slurs and violent bloodshed. The little concrete icebox should become a battlefield for a crusade that would never be written in any text books but would make the War of 1812 look petty in nature.

This new would-be war: impossibly small but rightly magnanimous. A nuclear explosion caught and trapped within a simple lunch pail. Hell encased inside a ball of glass.

The kind of rage that could only be spurned by a hellish delinquent trying to sink its claws in and sever a family's bond.

As it were, righteous fury be damned, the eldest and youngest Winchester found themselves momentarily at a loss of how to proceed. Their demon foe made no move to harm them, but so much damage had already been done.

The revelation that Dean's status as a human remained intact was registered with alarm and a new brand of vexation.

It was damning and strange, surreal, or perhaps it was simply unreal. The acknowledgement coming into full comprehension, yet it warred with the sight before them: Dean - _human Dean_ -flopped from his kneeling position to lay on his back; his clothes wrinkled and bunched up, shirt shifting to reveal a smooth, tight expansion of flesh with more ins than outs and jeans riding low to attest notable weight loss. But Dean paid no heed to his clothing or the way the garments hung on his body far more loosely than they should have; his single-minded focus was on the rabbit carcass still caught between his teeth. A rumble of soft, playful growls tore through his throat and he gradually coaxed his pearly whites deeper into the meat.

John was apprehensive, but concern was overshadowed by anger. Burning rage was easier to cope with, especially when he could direct it at the demon that stood at the top of the stairs like a pentacle of evil looming overhead. The demon had done this to his son, and the fact alone would not go without retribution.

Sam's breath stilled, his insides clenching with discomfort at seeing his older brother's behavior. If there was no supernatural elements to cause Dean's current state of mind, then it was all psychological. He paled at the implications- the trials that would have forced Dean's humanity to take a vacation and leave him a drooling, moderately skittish creature of baser nature. For Dean's sake, he silently prayed for this to be the work of some form of magic.

Not one for behaving as a passive spectator while others encroached on time she could be spending with her pet, the demon descended the stairs with all the grace of a pageant queen. She stopped once she was standing beside her pet. "Up," she ordered, voice sharp but not unkind.

Hearing the simple command and noting the close proximity between himself and his handler, Dean rolled and stumbled to his feet, shoulders hunched and his treat still firmly caught in his maws, blood and saliva dripping to wet his shirt and leave small spatters on the floor beneath. He looked to her expectantly, obediently, and he was rewarded with her combing her pale spindly fingers through his hair. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the touch.

Dean breathed in through his nose and out around his food. The hand in his hair was a welcomed sensation, and when that hand moved to caress his cheek, he released a soft whimper. The room was always so cold, and his handler's touch was so warm. He pressed his cheek against her palm, nuzzling, seeking that little bit of warmth while she was willing to offer it. Part of the rabbit's carcass rubbed against the demon's wrist and smudged her pale flesh with blood, but neither her nor her pet seemed to notice or care.

"My sweet boy has been so good," she breathed the words against Dean's temple, her warm exhale washing over him like a dose of ecstasy and causing his eyelids to flutter. Her lips were touching his skin, sliding warm and wet along his temple as she spoke again. "Go, sit down and eat. Mommy will get you a drink soon, and then a nice warm bath." She paused to pull away from her pet, smiling when he leaned after her, chasing her presence. "How does that sound? Food, drink, bath?" She repeated the order of events with an excited lilt, laughing when her pet seemed to come alive with excitement: all wide eyes and nervous energy. "Go on, sit and eat," she reminded him with her tone growing a bit more firm; she didn't like having to repeat herself, but it was worth it to see the words really sink in and her pet process what was expected.

While Dean kept near silent, his every emotion and thought was front and center, as plain as the nose on his face. His face had always been expressive, but his time with the demon had bred a childlike honesty.

Simple thoughts, simple emotions. Little to no conflict. A fool's paradise spun around a warped reality.

Dean walked- _no_ , that was not a walk. There was a skip, a bounce _(a prance?)_ in his step as he moved to comply with his handler's orders. He once again bypassed the Winchesters, completely ignoring their presence. He sat down in his chair- wrists resting against the arm rests and ankles pressed back against the chair legs- and snapped his jaw around the meat of the rabbit, growling at the challenge presented as he attempted to eat without the aid of his hands or a stable surface to perch his meal on. The animal slipped from his teeth and landed heavily in his denim-clad lap. He huffed in annoyance and leaned down at an uncomfortable angle, almost doubling his upper body so he could reclaim the dead thing once more. Teeth reclaiming purchase, he jerked and pulled and his teeth punctured and scraped as he freed chunks of meat from ripped hides. After the first couple swallows, he hummed with satisfaction and continued to work at it. The corners of his mouth quirked up, and he looked entirely too pleased with himself.

Completely happy to follow simple one-worded orders and eat and ignore the world around him.

John's anger grew into something huge and bleak, like an ever expanding blackhole; he tried to keep his focus on the demon rather than his corrupted son. He didn't want to see that. He couldn't just watch his strong and competent son be reduced to something worthy of being put in a zoo. He would exorcise this demon, and he would rescue his son. They would patch Dean up, give him real food, and remind him who and what he was. A quick and easy fix, and then they'd be back on the road, hunting and carrying on the Winchester way.

Sam's attention, unlike that of his father, was almost glued to his brother's primal actions and his own self admonishment. He couldn't bring himself to look away, and when he did he felt a gnawing sense of guilt and despair. He'd left for Stanford to pursue a new life; he wasn't sorry for that. But, he harbored a deep seed of regret for leaving his brother behind- for leaving Dean to fall into whatever mess their dad pushed him into, and for Dean to suffer through everything that was beyond his control. If Sam had stayed just a bit longer, maybe Dean wouldn't have gone missing to begin with.

Nothing about this situation was alright. It was new and uncomfortable territory, but John was determined to remain grounded. He pushed himself into a more workable and productive headspace, telling himself that this was just like any other hunt, and he had a black-eyed demon bitch he needed to get out of the way. Simple enough. Borderline routine, at this point. And this time he had Sam's help- if little Sammy would pull his head out of his brother's ass long enough to be helpful.

The demon watched and cooed at the sight of her pet's enjoyment. It had been days since she'd fed him properly, and she planned to make up for that once she dealt with these intruding hunters. She fancied the idea of leaving them alive while she flayed their skin and tossed scraps to her pet. Raw or cooked, her favorite human mongrel would eat just about anything she gave him. And if he refused, she'd hover over him with the threat of deadman's blood.

Really, there was no significance to the punishment involving the blood of the deceased opposed to any type of blood specifically (Dean was not a vampire, after all), but her pet certainly thought there was. Humans were fragile creatures; swallowing a pint of blood could make them ill, and she'd force-fed her pet nearly a gallon during one of his early sessions meant to encourage compliant behavior. She would never forget the sight of him covered in blood, half-choking on the thick and rich substance while she reminded him that good pets didn't complain about the food they were given. Her human mongrel had still been vocal at that point but the snark in his comments was fizzling out, replaced by begging as he tried to expel mouthfuls of blood; she just relentlessly continued to pour until he gave in and swallowed. His food-deprived stomach ached as it became bloated with liquid consumption. After the punishment, the effects were almost immediate: he became ill, sweaty and shaky, nerves frayed and mind caught in a loop degradation and association, his body working to purge itself of the blood as he retched and vomited and gagged on the aftertaste. As hungry as he had been, after the punishment, he couldn't bring himself to eat when real food was put in front of him. So, his handler had cleaned him up, changed his clothes, and held him while the last of his tremors subsided. He'd allowed the embrace.

For the demon, the memory was a fond one, and she regularly reminded her pet of it by keeping a bowl of blood nearby.

If she felt vindictive and ordered him to drink it, he probably would and he'd do it without force or complaint, but she wouldn't do that; there was a mercy rule in play. While the tainted blood was something of a harrowing experience, it also marked the beginning of their bond- when he'd first turned into her embrace and accepted comfort while recovering from his sickness. In that moment of weakness, he needed her; what's more, he accepted her. He didn't blame her for the torture, rather he blamed himself for his unruly actions that led to it.

The demon was proud of her pet; he'd been so stubborn, but he was a fast learner.

She remembered their early days, back when she had to sedate him just to drag him to the chair and strap him in. Now, the chair was something he looked forward to sitting in, and he was quite content to go there on his own and sit for hours if his mommy was too busy to spend time with him. She remembered how much he fought and yelled, cursed and demanded; there had been so much screaming and shouts of damnation. But, little by little, she took his fight away. Like water to a stone, she wore him down until his mountainous will became a smooth and shiny pebble.

Perfect by her standards, worthy of keeping. After all, her body was young, but as a demon she was just shy of being ancient. Having her sweet little boy brought a pleasant blend of sadism and companionship. She offered a delicate balance between praise and discipline, and Dean thrived under both.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii...-" John muttered under his breath, the Latin rolling from his tongue quick and sure.

The demon had been so caught up in thoughts of her own pet project that she failed to take into account the serious threat that came in the form of the two intrusive hunters. This threat was brought to the forefront of her mind when she felt a jolt from within as her inner demon was gripped by the in-process exorcism.

Black eyes flashed with anger and indignity as she caught onto what the hunter was doing, and with the flick of her hand, she knocked John off his feet and sent him sailing into a too-cold wall where he remained pinned like morbid wall decorum. "No!" she screamed the word, voice rattling and the lone bulb flickering.

Quickly, Sam picked up where his father had left off, "-omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica...-" he was surprised when the demon pointed and uttered three simple words:

"Boy," the first word, to call Dean's attention. "Get him!" the last two words, to instruct.

In a flash, Dean abandoned his chewed up rabbit, got up from the chair and lunged at Sam, less with his fists and more with a snapping jaw and ragged snarls.

Like a trained attack dog.

Sam was too distracted to promptly continue the exorcism, newly focused on dodging Dean's poor attempts at attacking.

Dean had the size, weight, and strength to overtake Sam, but he wasn't using his body to its own advantage. Instead, he just wanted to sink his teeth- _his too-human teeth_ \- into something.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, trying to get his brother's attention. "Dean, stop!" He dodged again and managed to catch Dean on the shoulder and shove him down, not wanting to exert too much force and risk harming him.

But pushing Dean down had been a mistake. With Dean's new lifestyle, he'd become accustomed to working from lower angles, and he launched himself at Sam from his crouched position, effectively tackling the taller young man. Pinning the taller man down and hovering over him, Dean panted heavily, spit flying from his mouth and globbing onto Sam's face.

"Gross," Sam muttered, grimacing, wrenching a hand free and using it to wipe the spittle from his face. "Your breath is rank, Dean. What the hell is she feeding you?"

For a moment, everything stilled. The demon didn't move. John remained tacked to the wall like a human-shaped portrait. Sam lay on the floor, pressed beneath his brother's hunched form. And Dean... Dean's large green eyes darted back and forth, appearing almost manic and confused before ultimately settling on Sam. In that moment, it was as if he _really_ looked at his younger brother and a bit of recognition flashed in his eyes.

Dean moved his mouth soundlessly. He flexed his tongue and worked his lips around forgotten syllables. "R-Ra'itt," Dean forced the sound with a heavy breath. "Ra'itt," he tried again, leaning his face entirely too close and breathing into Sam's nose and mouth. Then, he did it again... on purpose.

Sam gagged and turned his head. "Yeah, rabbit, I get it. It still smells, Dean."

And Dean did it again, his breath hot and heavy, eyes alight with childish mirth.

In that moment, Sam was reminded of early mornings when he and Dean were kids, forgetting (or neglecting) to brush their teeth just so they could torture each other with soured morning breath.

Dean let out a harsh bark, almost laughing. Sam's heart ached at the strange sound, but he found himself laughing too.

John's head jerked to look at Sam and Dean, hope welling up and resting just beneath the surface. His boys were together and laughing; against all odds, the Winchesters were going to pull through. It's what they did. And maybe this time around, once things got better, they'd stay that way.

"Someone needs a breath mint," Sam said with exaggerated urgency punctuated by an unnecessary gag. His mouth tugged into a lopsided smile.

Watching the display, the demon's shoulders rose in contempt and frustration. This wasn't supposed to happen.

Dean -her pet- had understood something human and responded. She needed to put a stop to it before her hard work came undone.

"-Ergo, omnis legio diabolica, adiuramus te... cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum propinare...-" John's hope was renewed and he continued.

The woman's body jerked in alarm, feeling her insides pinch and pull as the exorcism spell tried to punch the demon out of the host's body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -...it's not over yet.  
> Is anyone interested in more insight on Dean's conditioned behavior? 
> 
> \--Story is un-betaed.


	3. Chapter 3

The young man beneath Dean smells like sweat, spice, and detergent. The body of the young man is strong and firm. The hair of the man's head is mussed in a way that makes Dean want to touch it, the same way his handler likes to touch his hair, with smooth strokes that sooth an ache that lives somewhere under the skin and deep within the skull.

Dean's entire self coils around the idea of sensation and familiarity, and despite the fact that he knows his handler had ordered him to attack this young man, the young man is something Dean fiercely wants to sooth. Sooth, instead of attack.

The word _protect_ comes to mind, but it's conflicting for his own interests to oppose that of his mommy's.

Dean doesn't like the conflict. But, with his body leaning over the young man's, his own breath becoming a weapon for teasing, it feels right. He wants to play with this young man, to shove him and then run in hopes that the young man will give chase. He wants to share food and listen to his voice, even when most of the words won't make a lick of sense.

When the young man had asked what he'd been fed, Dean couldn't be sure how or why, but he knew what was being asked and he had a gnawing compulsion to dig deep and find an answer.

Rabbit.

He'd been given a rabbit as a treat, and he wanted this familiar young man to know.

Talking- making any sound that was not simple and throaty or whiny or harsh - was hard. He knew what the word sounded like. He knew he had to form his lips over his teeth a certain way to get the sound right. He's pretty sure his tongue is needed too, but it doesn't cooperate with him, and when he manages to say: "Ra'itt," he thinks it's close enough to pass for the word he needed to say.

When there's laughter from the young man, Dean feels accomplished. He likes the sound, and he barks his own brand of happiness.

He's not entirely sure what's going on. This is all strange and new. Different from what he's grown accustomed to.

He just knows that he was having some 'chair time' and waiting for his mommy to come and feed him. He was enjoying the lack of restraints, and he was trying to ignore the annoying clench in his gut that signaled hunger.

He knew his mommy would be coming. She'd feed him and make sure he was cleaned up if he got dirty. Then, maybe they could go for a walk. He liked walks. And, one of these days, he vowed, he would be able to catch that elusive squirrel he'd seen out back near the trees.

The people were talking, it seemed.

The older male against the wall, he was chanting something that was causing distress to his handler.

Dean wasn't quite sure what to do. In a moment of uncertainty, he felt a swell of panic. For that moment, he missed his chair; he missed the restraints and the blindfold. He could sit in the chair, sightless and content, even if the fabric over his eyes could get a little irritating after a while. Just as his thoughts were beginning to loop around and reaffirm his desire for chair-time and the safety that came with it, he felt a pair of hands on his shoulders.

Big, strong hands. Strong hands attached to arms that moved to wrap around and hug him.

When Dean had realized that his handler was in trouble, his bright-eyed enthusiasm for taunting and teasing Sam had vanished, replaced by concern, confusion, and fear.

Seeing the clear shift in emotion, Sam opted to reclaim Dean's attention by grounding him with a firm grip on his shoulders, followed by a tight embrace.

Sam was hugging is brother. The feeling seemed monumental.

John was rushing to finish the exorcism. He needed to, to save his son and to get them all out of this mess. This wouldn't kill the demon, only expel it, and that was far too merciful compared to what was deserved, but it would have to suffice for now.

Not one to be put down easily, the woman's eyes filtered black and she threw herself towards the hunter that wasn't wrapped around her pet. Passing the table, she grabbed the blade and shouted, loud, wordless, and blood-curdling. A sound of pure anger and promise. She pressed her body against John's, her breasts against his chest and the blade pressing against his throat- daring him to keep spewing Latin. The sharp, cold edge bit into his throat, slicing the skin but not cutting deep enough to bleed him out.

It was just enough of a warning to stall the hunter's progress. John cut off his words and willfully reduced his breaths to become shallow. He glared at the demon, eyes gleaming with purpose and defiance. He was pinned to the wall, yes, by demonic influence and by the physical force of the female body, but he had an ace, and he hadn't showed his hand yet. Pinned, as he were, he still had control of his arms. He'd tested, twitching his fingers, flexing his wrists. Small movements that soon told him his back was practically suctioned to the wall but his arms would have free range. He just had to be patient and wait for that fact to be advantageous.

Now was that time.

He slid a hand down and retrieved his flask of holy water from his pocket. He gave the demon a sadistic smirk as he thumbed the cap off. He made a slight show of struggling, wriggling in place before bringing is arm up in an arc until the flask was tipped upside down and pouring on the woman's head.

The flask didn't hold much liquid, but it seemed to do the trick. The holy water sizzled as it touched evil and ran down in rivulets.

The demon let out a horrifying yowl that rattled her entire frame.

From then, events seemed to fly by in fastforward.

The woman backed off and dropped the blade where it clattered to the floor.

The demonic influence released John and he stepped away from the wall and readied himself to fling the last of the flask's holy water onto the demon.

Dean, tuned into his handler's plight, worked his way out of the young man's embrace. He managed freedom when his clumsy scrabbling had him unintentionally kneeing the hunter in the groin. Ripping himself from Sam's hold, Dean carried the momentum through a low-angled lunge at John.

Just as Dean was about to make contact, John retaliated out of reflex, bringing his knee up and busting his son's jaw.

Sam, recovering, cursed his father and watched as Dean dropped into a pitiful heap and curled up.

Worse, Dean whimpered. The sound was soulful and devastating.

The demon was beyond pissed. These hunters had intruded on her home and were hurting her pet. And, of course, there was also the attempt to exorcise her... As if she was the most vile thing in the room. She inwardly scoffed at the very idea. "This, this is why you humans can't have nice things," she hissed at them.

Humans were so stupid and petty and irresponsible. They neglected and broke everything, and now they were trying to get their hands on her pet. She mulled it over quickly and came to a decision.

It wasn't something she was happy with but she made peace with it.

Fearless, if not still entirely pissed beyond reason, she ignored the hunters and approached her cowering human mongrel. "Shhhh," she shushed him and his whimpers softened to a quieter sound. She nudged him with the toe of her shoe and he turned large, frightful green eyes on her. "Come," she said simply before walking away. She walked across the room and picked up the slightly-warped, barbed metal collar. She didn't bother looking back; she knew Dean would follow.

He pulled himself to his feet and walked after her, leaning forward slightly and allowing her to fit the collar to his neck, the little jagged spikes biting into his throat as she secured the S hook in the back.

There was something strange and almost solemn in the way the demon and Dean regarded each other, and perhaps that is what kept John and Sam from interfering.

They were sharing a moment, and it somehow seemed... intimate. Personal and private.

She rested her palm against Dean's cheek and ran her thumb across his lips. Retracting her hand, she looked around, found and grabbed the wide-banded blindfold that had been previously discarded. She took one of Dean's hands between her own and made him hold onto the fabric.

"Your friends over there are real dicks," she said to Dean, voice soft and almost sorrowful. "I don't think they're going to stop until they have you, and I don't fancy a trip to Hell." She paused to cast John and Sam a look of contempt, then she turned her attention back to Dean. "You're going with them... for a little while. Would you like me to pack your things?"

John and Sam exchanged looks of disbelief.

Demons didn't behave civilly. They were vile and greedy and murderous, and they all deserved the same fate.

If John had it his way, he'd make the bitch suffer properly.

Sam just watched and listened to the way the demon spoke to Dean, almost as if she really cared. But the very notion was ridiculous. Demons were an embodiment of evil.

Dean's handler released his hands, leaving him to hold the blind without further prompt. Slipping an arm around him, she moved towards the stairs, guiding him to walk with her.

"Hey!" John interjected, loud and assertive. "What do you think you're doing with my son?"

The woman paused and let out an exasperated breath. "Hold onto your holy water, bucko. I'm packing up my boy's things so he can take a trip with you."

Sam was just baffled. "Why?" he couldn't help the question. He kept it vague because he wasn't entirely sure what he was asking.

"Honey, I'm old and I'm tired. At least let me say goodbye to my sweet little boy." With that, the demon led Dean up the stairs, the other Winchesters just a step behind.

"Keep an eye on her," John whispered to Sam, receiving a nod.

Sam wasn't about to let his brother out of his sight. He followed so close, he was practically walking on their heels.

John deviated almost immediately, taking it upon himself to draw out a few well-placed devil's traps- because he had no intention on just letting the demon go. Not after everything she'd done. Not after she'd stolen away his son and warped him into a pathetic, cowardly zoo animal. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. He couldn't focus on the positive of his son being alive. Death was better than what Dean had been forced into: his humanity stripped away.

The demon led Dean and consequently Sam to a bathroom. She closed the toilet lid and ordered a simple: "Sit."

Dean obliged, sitting on the lid and looking up at her expectantly.

She grabbed a wash cloth off a linen rack and moved to the sink, wetting it with water and a lather of soap before turning back to her pet and wiping at his face and hair, ridding him of blood, dirt, and dried spittle. She was gentle in her ministrations, and when she began to hum, Dean closed his eyes and listened.

It wasn't Hey Jude, but for how serene Dean seemed to be, it might as well have been.

Sam averted his gaze, unable to watch. He scraped his boot along the floor tiles, feeling uncomfortable for witnessing something that appeared almost ritualistic.

Unbuttoning Dean's shirt, the demon chased the newly exposed flesh with the wash cloth.

"We'll get you clean clothes," she said to Dean. "Clothes," she repeated, making sure her pet could hear and understand. He always did best with simple words. "My boy want some clean clothes?" she added the question with a higher pitched voice, and Dean's eyes snapped open like a dog who just heard the squeak of his favorite squeaky toy.

Dean shrugged out of his shirt so that he'd be ready when his mommy gave him a clean shirt.

Sure enough, once he was decidedly cleaner, she grabbed another button-up and helped him into it. While fastening it, she stole a glance at the hunter before speaking to him. "Don't over-feed him. No glass dishes; he tends to break them. He likes to go for walks, but he will run off if you don't watch him; he gets distracted easily. Make sure he has rules, or he can be wild and a bit unruly. And... watch out for nightmares."

Sam frowned and nodded, not sure what to say. A demon- the demon who had kidnapped his brother and held him hostage for over a year - was instructing him on how to take care of said brother. He listened, but he wasn't sure what to make of it.

"Not all demons are bad, Sam Winchester," the demon said, and Sam's breath hitched.

That was the first indication she had given that she knew who they were.

Sam supposed she might know because he was related to Dean, but he had a sinking suspicion that there was more to it than that.

"Good guys, bad guys- we're all just out to protect ourselves and the ones we love," the woman added, "evil is subjective. After all, they say... the road to Hell is paved with good intentions." She laughed lightly, as if she'd said something funny, but Sam didn't get the joke, and Dean didn't react at all.

In fact, Dean had found a way to occupy himself, pulling the wash cloth between his teeth. His handler grabbed the loose end and tugged, the two making a bizarre game of who had a better hold on the cloth.

"Dean is not a dog," Sam felt the need to state the obvious.

"No," the demon said simply, taking the cloth from Dean's mouth and setting it aside. She ran her hand through his hair. "But he had been abandoned, so I took it upon myself to rescue him. And he's been such a good boy for me."

Sam frowned and shook his had. Dean hadn't been abandoned. True, he'd gone to Stanford, but Dean was never really alone. Dean hunted with their dad. And then, of course, there was Bobby, and they called or visited the guy from time to time...

The demon pressed on. "Little Sammy grew up and flew the coop."

Sam visibly tensed. He didn't need the reminder.

"And, big bad hunter, John Winchester, just had to run off... chasing some nasty monster that just couldn't wait. No, John ran off and left Dean all alone... to recover from- now, don't quote me on this, but I think it was a poltergeist? Sounds about right, huh?" She made her tone light and teasing, partly talking to Sam and partly getting Dean's attention. "Was it a nasty poltergeist that broke your ribs and dislocated your hip? Hm? And then your so called daddy left you all alone." She smiled, sinful red lips quirking into something almost pretty. "So, I swooped in and saved him. Took him home, taught him a few manners and took care of him. Now..." she paused and turned back to Sam, her hands on her hips in a womanly way that conveyed annoyance. "Now, you want to break an abandon him all over again."

"No-" Sam's brows were drawn close, his face scrunched up as he soaked in the information.

His father had left Dean alone and injured.

Dean wasn't in any shape to fend off a demon.

This demon had abducted Dean and...-

-his brother was barely human. But, he was _still_ human. Sam had seen proof of that. He'd seen a flash of recognition in Dean's eyes. Through bringing up something familiar, a chord had been struck, and Dean had remembered something and responded in kind.

Dean was still in there, and Sam planned to work with him. Though, now Sam was tempted to put a stop to any help their father might offer.

In a big way, Sam found himself pushing the blame on John.

As the youngest Winchester was beginning to process this, the demon woman vacated the bathroom in favor of grabbing a bag and collecting her pet's clothes. She handed the bag to Sam once she was finished.

"Come on, boy," the woman said, and Dean got up from his seat. She nodded towards Sam. "Do you remember Sammy? You're going to go with him for a little while. Okay?"

Dean just stared, uncomprehending. His eyes darted back and forth like he was lost and unfocused. His breath quickened and his knees buckled.

Sam jolted, ready to catch his brother in case he fell.

But there was no need. The woman placed a hand on the back of the collar and tugged, causing the barbs to dig into Dean's throat. He let out a soft whine at the raw feeling against the sensitive tissue. She then took the blindfold from his hands and secured it over his eyes. Almost instantly, he seemed to relax...

"Why did that calm him down?" Sam couldn't help asking. If he was going to be taking Dean with him -because there was no way he was going to just let Dean go with their dad - he needed to be aware of what his brother was used to. In a strange way, he felt like he was being given something exotic and needed an owner's manual. He pushed the thought aside.

The demon didn't bother to answer his question anyway.

John took that moment to make his presence known. He stepped into view and cleared his throat to gain their attention. "Let's get going. Boys, the truck is running."

Sam nodded and hurriedly checked the contents of the bag he'd been given, making sure there was nothing out of the ordinary within. No odd charms or hex bags- all clear, as far as he could tell. Just clothes. He reached out and placed a hand on Dean's shoulder. "C'mon, Dean," he coaxed.

Dean's feet were uncertain, but he moved without complaint.

John quirked a brow, about to question why the blindfold was on his son again, but Sam answered before he could make the inquiry.

"It calms him down, dad. Just leave it for now."

Surprisingly, John did leave the issue alone. He trudged ahead, leading the way out.

Sam followed at a slower pace, trying to keep Dean interested in going along with them: "Almost there, buddy." "You're doing good, Dean." "Few more steps." "Little further." "We're gonna take you home." "You can meet Jess, you'll like her..."

Dean followed after his brother's voice. Like playing Marco Polo.

The demon followed after the Winchester trio, only to stop near the doorjamb. She tried to move but found herself stuck behind an invisible barrier.

"What?" she asked, surprised and confused. She looked around, then down. No sign of any trap. No foul play. Then... her gaze traveled upward. And, there, drawn on the ceiling was a devil's trap, and she was caught beneath it. Watching them walk away, she shouted in indignation. "You're just going t take my pet and leave?!"

Sam glanced back at her for a moment but ultimately turned to lead Dean to the truck.

John was already there and had the door open. John and Sam helped Dean into the middle seat. Sam buckled his big brother in before getting in and buckling himself. He shut the door and rolled the window down to keep a cool breeze going.

After having been in that cold room for so long, the outside air felt a little too warm.

John didn't get in the truck right way. Instead, he backtracked to the house where the demon was trapped and cursing angrily.

"Now, I never said I'd let you off the hook after what you did to my boy," he said, a smile forming on his face. "I could exorcise you, but that body is probably dead, and you'd just find another host. And then, the right thing to do would be to salt and burn the body, so I figured I'd skip a step or two to save time. You know, so I can make more time for my boys." He procured a tin of lighter fluid and a match. He doused the woman's body, remaining deaf to her swears and threats. With a simple, mocking slur of "Time to burn, bitch," he struck the match and tossed it towards her feet.

She lit up like a Christmas tree.

John turned and walked away, heading back to truck.

They had a long drive ahead.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delayed update(s). I had the next few chapters outlined and mostly typed, but it was all saved on a single file, and I didn't have the document backed up. And, of course, the file got corrupted, so productivity is slightly pushed back.  
> For everyone reading and and taking interest my first Supernatural story, thank you for your support! I'm having fun writing this!

The ride went a lot smoother than any of the Winchesters could have expected. John drove with a relative sense of peace, keeping conversation both minimal and light to avoid any pending argument with his spirited young son. Sam kept mostly to himself, responding in kind when prompted by his dad, and offering occasional words and phrases to his brother with the intent to encourage and soothe. And Dean simply seemed to enjoy being in a vehicle; he perked up at the sound of the engine; during the ride itself, he was mildly alert despite the blindfold; he kept calm, though he made quick work of wriggling out from under the strap of his seat belt so he could lean over Sam and catch some wind from the window (if he swallowed a few mouthfuls of air and kept his tongue out until it was uncomfortably dry, no one commented); and, the moment the radio was turned on, volume low and classic rock eating up the quiet, Dean seemed almost completely relaxed.

For a while, it was easy to think - _easy to pretend_ \- that the last year hadn't happened. For a while, it was just a father, two sons, some good old tunes, and memories.

John couldn't help thinking back, what seemed like a lifetime ago. The Winchester boys and Mary _(still vibrant and alive and perfect)_ all buckled into the Impala. Joan Jett's voice crackled through the speakers and Mary slipped on her sunglasses and jabbed an elbow into John's side to get his attention while she lip-synced "I love Rock and Roll." In the back seat, little baby Sammy was fast asleep, suckling at a binky and holding onto a stuffed elephant named Pookums Mc Bear-burger (-a gift from Dean; it had been the older boy's first stuffed animal, and he had named it something silly, like most kids tend to do. Dean was proud to give it to Sam. Pookums, of course, would later vanish in the very fire that took Mary's life.) Dean, bless his little self, had a couple toy cars, a coloring book (with three crayons because he'd dropped the rest of them), a plastic bag full of little green army men, and- what currently held his attention- a small bee that had flitted in and landed on his arm. Dean's eyes had been wide as he stared at the bee, afraid to startle it, in case it decided to ~~bite~~ _(sting)_ him, and yet, he seemed content to just watch it as long as it didn't bring him any harm. John remembers catching sight of Dean and the bee through the rear view mirror and asking: "Wha'cha got there, Deano?" And Dean, in surprise, moved to hide the bee by slapping a hand over it, incidentally squishing the bee against his arm and causing its dying nerves to push the stinger into his small arm. Dean hid the bee and never verbally answered his father. Instead, Dean pretended not to have heard his father and opted to sing along with his mother, loud and off-key, and not lip-syncing. The car ride took them to their destination: a simple park with a swing, a slide, a sandbox, and a pavilion that housed a few picnic tables. The plan for the day was a family picnic. They all got out in a manner that had become routine. John and Mary each got out on their own, then John rapped at Dean's window to tell him to hurry along (thus, allowing Dean to let himself out and feel like a responsible big boy), and Mary would pull open the door to get little Sammy (with Dean usually hurrying to grab the diaper bag to help his mommy). As a family, they'd managed to settle and get halfway through their picnic before realizing that Dean's arm was pink and swollen from the bee sting. When both Mary and John had confronted their son, Dean simply shot back with: "Hey, Imma tough nut to crack. I got this." They laughed and carried on, and the swelling from the bee sting was mostly gone by the time they got back to the Impala.

Sam couldn't help thinking back, what felt like only yesterday, him and Dean in the back seat of the Impala while their dad ran a little ways away for a salt-and-burn. It had been an impromptu hunt, and there hadn't been time to drop the boys off anywhere, so he'd told them to stay in the car and behave _("and, Dean, watch out for Sammy")._ Sam remembers asking Dean what the ghost might look like, if their dad would come back alive, and what they would do if the ghost came all the way to the car. Sammy had always been inquisitive, and after learning that monsters were real and their dad hunted them, it only made sense for him to want to learn about all the spookies out there. Most questions involved monster habits and weaknesses, and whether or not their dad was going to be alright. Dean's answers regarding monsters came in rehearsed lines that he'd worked hard to memorize from John, and answers regarding their father's safety were more or less along the lines of: "You know how some people are afraid of the dark or black cats or burglars, and how, like, you're afraid of clowns, Sammy?" and Sam would nod absently, his eyes leering to look out the window in the direction their father had gone, and Dean would continue: "Well, just like that, monsters are afraid of Dad!" And just like that, Sam would be at ease, and sure enough, John would come back, shouldering a shovel and tucking a lighter or matchbook into his pocket. Once John was seated in the Impala, Sam just had to ask- _Did you get it? Did you kill the ghost?_ And Dean would have to correct Sam. "Dad didn't kill anything. Ghosts are already dead." And then, Dean would one-up Sam's question by rephrasing it: "Did ya gank the son of bitch?" John, smug and hiding a chuckle behind his hand, would answer affirmatively, and later he would retell the story with a bit of exaggeration, and the boys would be on the edge of their seats even though they knew the outcome. Sam recalls the impossible stories, about how even the easy hunts had John talking big game like he could have been killed at any moment. Sam knows that he and Dean should have been terrified at the idea, and yet, at the time, all they could focus on was how brave their hunter/hero dad was. Then, of course, there was the matter of turning on the radio, Dean asking about a specific band, and John replying with: "Driver picks the music. Shotgun shuts his-" and Dean: "cakehole. I know. But I like pie better. My hole is always open for pie."

Dean doesn't have the capacity to think back about memories involving car rides or family, but there's a calm sense of familiarity and freedom, and simply being inside a vehicle and hearing old tunes is like he's riding out the lazy part of a good high. It's happy and soothing and has him not giving a fuck about much of anything else. He likes the noise and vibrations, and he even sorta likes his companions. Though, their presence is a stark reminder that he isn't near his mommy. His handler. His mommy. His handler. His mom- His mommy, his _real_ one, has blonde hair. He knows this. He can almost remember her smile. He can almost remember the shine in her eyes and the gold of her hair. He can almost remember this, his mom. Something about her, and a man, and a little baby, and a car. But the memories are just out of reach. He wants to grab onto them and pull them close. He feels like there is something worth knowing, if he can just dig deep enough. But somehow, when he pictures his blonde mommy and his memories swirl around her leaning over his bed, carding her finger through his hair and humming a Beatles song, the entire scene flickers and flashes and becomes smudged and blurry, clearing up and replacing the blonde lady with his handler: all dark hair and red lips and eyes that exude darkness. The memory of his handler is so much more vivid, and it would be moderately terrifying if he hadn't been focusing on how warm her hand was against his chilled cheek in that cold room. Or, how happy he was the first time she unbuckled all his restraints and called him such a sweet boy. He recalled her pressing long bony fingers to his lips, slipping a piece of meat into his mouth, and the taste was pure bliss after having gone so long without food. He'd groaned in delight and licked her fingers and silently pleaded for more. He'd gotten to be such a good boy. His handler- who had taken to referring to herself as his mommy - treated him so well, especially since he'd gotten his shiny new collar. He wore this one with pride. The old one, the shocky one, had been tossed away like a bad memory. And- _wait._ Dean was in a vehicle. His mommy wasn't around. He was hungry and thirsty, and- and he liked the song on the radio. He liked the cool air that blasted through the window. He liked leaning against the young man who sat next to him. He was happy enough for now.

All in all, it was almost blissful.

In some ways, perhaps, it was a little slice of heaven.

In other ways, it was the calm before the storm.

At some point, Dean had worked himself almost entirely out of his seat belt with only his legs caught at an oblique angle and the rest of his body on or against Sam, it was obvious the elder of the two had shamelessly cuddled up and fallen asleep. John didn't even try to hide the grin that spoke volumes of future blackmail.

The drive wasn't measured in hours, though several came and went. Instead, time was calculated by the changing of the sky, the miles put behind them, and the stops made to fill up on gas.

Unfortunately, for the Winchester trio, tranquility was fragile on the best of days, and it as only a matter of time before an argument (or worse) came to light.

Sam had been inwardly brooding off and on since his father had come to collect him for their trip to save Dean. After all, Dean had been missing for over a year, and his father had waited _(wasted)_ all that time without bothering to at least tell Sam his brother had been abducted by a black-eyed demon bitch. And what's more, according to the aforementioned demon, it had been John's negligence, abandonment, and obsession with hunting that led to Dean's abduction to begin with. Lastly, there was the matter of discussing how they were going to handle the enigma that was his brother's mitigating state of mind.

Having thought everything through and prepared himself to make a case in his and Dean's favor as well as combat John's potential disagreements, Sam opened his mouth to break the ice and ask the first of several questions that plagued him. To his surprise, he was a breath too late.

It was John who managed to speak up first. "Alright, Sam, let's have it. Let's get this over with and talk about the elephant in the room."

Caught off guard by his father's willingness to talk civilly about something that could potentially go south very quickly, Sam had to take a moment to school his expression into something more relaxed and less pinched. He was about to speak and agree, but again, it was John's voice that rattled through.

Taking Sam's slower reply as permission to proceed, John was blunt when he spoke. "I'll just come right out and say it: your brother is an animal, Sam. We don't know how much of him is still in that fucked up brain. And he's dangerous."

_Ouch._

The youngest Winchester felt as if he'd been slapped, and if his brother had been awake and coherent, he's sure Dean would feel the same. "No," Sam interjected as quickly as he could. He wouldn't allow the conversation to steer in this direction. _Dean_ was not the elephant in the room; rather, John had created a whole herd of elephants. "Dean is still Dean. We just need to work with him and help him heal from this ordeal. He isn't dangerous. And you have no right to call him fucked up when you're the reason this happened to begin with!"

_Oops._

Sam hadn't meant the last bit of what he said. Well, he _had;_ he just wasn't prepared for that part of the talk _yet._ He'd wanted to ease into it before he brought the accusation front and center. Unfortunately, it just slipped out. He pulled his lips tight and tried not to openly grimace at his mistake.

"My fault?" John came back with a tone of disbelief. Sam had expected anger and shouting, but his father's voice was low and venom gradually seeped into it. "If it's my damn fault that he couldn't hole himself in a room for a few hours without getting taken, then it's your damn fault for not answering your fucking phone when I tried to call. Hell, you could have called. The phone-thing works both ways, Sam."

Sam fought the urge to wince, because his dad had a point. There were phone calls, but Sam always had one reason or another not to answer. He was studying, or with Jess, or with friends, or in class. There was always the lying promise sitting in the back of his mind as he kept thinking 'I'll call him back later.' Later never came, and eventually, he ditched the old phone altogether. He was still mad at his dad, mad at hunting and all it entailed. He just wanted normal, and he didn't think it was such a crime to want the simplicity that everyone else seemed entitled to. Though, when he thought about it too much- _when he really thought about it_ \- he felt sick. Because, he was having drinks, mastering beer pong, and seeing just how flexible Jess was while Dean was being tortured and twisted into a demon's idea of a perfect pet.

Sam's guts twisted, unsettled at the workings of his own mind. Human nature demanded that he shift the blame and defend himself through pushing offensively. "Broken ribs, dad. Broken ribs and a dislocated hip from some poltergeist stint, and you just up and left Dean to fend for himself. He probably couldn't even lay a few salt lines, and you left him!"

John's voice deepened and darkened, his eyes shadowed by his browline and his mouth pulling into a snarl. "I popped his damn hip back in place and wrapped his ribs. He was supposed to sleep it off for a few hours. I saved a family that night. I saved-"

"You broke your family by abandoning your injured son!"

"No, I saved a family. I did the hero-thing, and I hunted, and I saved a goddam family! And you know damn well that's what Dean would have wanted me to do in hindsight."

"You left Dean," Sam accused, his voice climbing to a near-shout.

"You left him first!" John responded in turn, his voice rising an octave but still remaining more calm than his son's.

Dean stirred out of his slumber, pulling away from Sam and arching up in his seat.

Both John and Sam fell silent, their focus on Dean as they waited to see what he would do.

Dean pawed lame-handedly around his seat belt and maneuvered out of it completely before stretching out between John and Sam, resting his upper body in Sam's lap and his legs across John's. Dean then shifted a bit and his whole body tensed momentarily before going lax. And... a wet spot formed on his pants and piss made itself known by smell and the telltale spread of warm wetness on the seat.

Sam was paralyzed as his brother's piss touched his denim-clad leg. He pressed himself as close to the window as possible in an attempt to get away from the urine and the situation itself. It was too awful and bizarre to rightly comprehend.

John's reaction was more active and immediate. He balked in disgust. "Fuck, Dean! The upholstery!" He grabbed at Dean's legs and forcefully pushed them off his lap at an unforgiving angle. "You did _not_ just fuckin' piss in my truck!"

Feeling the violent shove of his legs when he'd been previously relaxed had Dean feeling high strung. Alarmed, confused, and cornered. He fought, blindly/blindfolded, swatting, swinging his arms and practically trying to swim through the air as he twisted and wormed his way to what he presumed would be safety. He forced his entire self onto Sam and reached towards the window. He needed out. Whatever calm he'd felt before was gone, replaced by a fear and presumed promise of pain and punishment. He imagined threats he could scarcely understand. He imagined a new shock collar. He imagined starvation and countless hours left alone.

Being left alone was the worst punishment, in his opinion. Because he never knew for sure if his handler would come back.

What if he'd been forgotten? Or abandoned? Forgotten? Abandoned? It was a toss-up, which one would be worse.

Fear coursing through him, Dean let out a strangled sound of distress before attempting to throw himself out the window.

Sam, realizing this intent as soon as it began, wrapped his arms around Dean and fought to keep him confined in the limited space of the truck.

John was still fuming, muttering, cursing, and working out angry threats he'd regret once he had time to cool off.

"Dad," Sam hissed as he fought to maintain some semblance of control of his brother, "you're upsetting Dean!"

"He pissed in my truck!"

Sam thought to mention that there was piss on his leg too, but he refrained. Instead, repose came in the form of Sam openly confessing his intentions for Dean: "Deal with it for just a little longer! He's going to stay with me and Jess!"

"He can't, dammit!" John full-on yelled, his voice booming like thunder and scaring Dean enough to make him cease all struggles and drop limply in Sam's arms.

Sam glared defiantly at his father. "Jess and I can-" He moved in, ready to plead his case. Unwavering. He was ready for this.

"You can't, Sam. The first time Jess meets your brother, and he's like this. Do you want that? Is that even fair to her or Dean? And, you're so hellbent on doing the _normal_ things. How are your _normal_ friends going to react to him? Or, maybe you're going to lock him in a room somewhere and keep him like a dirty little secret. Like a prisoner. Or a pet- you always did want a damn dog..."

Sam choked on his own breath, disbelieving what his dad was saying. He wouldn't domesticate his brother like the demon had. He couldn't! No, he just wanted Dean safe, and he wanted to work towards getting his brother back to a healthy state of mind. It would take time, but he was certain it was doable.

"Dean isn't safe, Sam," John repeated. "You don't know what triggers his behaviors, and he has the potential to be aggressive. You are not equipped to handle him. And I sure as heck can't take him hunting with me. He'd be vulnerab-"

"Bobby," Sam cut in, surprising himself as the idea just sprang into mind. Yet, it made so much sense. Because Bobby had a good setup. He was familiar, practically family. He had his own personal panic room, if needed. He loved Dean like a son. And, for when Dean was coherent and capable again, there was always the Salvage Yard to keep him occupied and productive. It was a good solution, and Sam was mentally patting himself on the back for coming up with it. "Dean can stay with Bobby."

John frowned as he considered it. He could easily understand why Sam liked the idea, and he had to admit that it had a lot of good points in favor of persuasion. But, John also considered his own strained relation with the older hunter. They hadn't parted on the best terms, and he wasn't in a hurry to make a break for Sioux Falls. He had to at least make an effort to come up with a counter-solution. "Pamela. Pamela Barnes. The psychic that told me where I might find him. She's good. She might take him in."

Sam shook his head, adamant on his own suggestion. It made more sense. Bobby was like family, and Dean needed familiarity. "Veto," he said stubbornly. "Bobby's."

"But Pamela can-"

"Bobby's family, has a panic room, and will be able to do more for him than a palm-reader with a Ouija board." Sam's argument was sound and he agreed with it, but a large, selfish part of him still wanted to take Dean home with him and Jess. He could keep his brother safe. And Jess- she'd be willing to help. And, of course, he'd call and try to give her some version of the truth beforehand...

_Dean was kidnapped. Abducted. He was mistreated. Treated like an animal. He isn't quite himself..._

John sighed heavily, knowing that if they continued their argument, there was potential for real hurt, whether it was emotional or physical. So, he opted for something easier to agree on. "I'm beat," he said, sounding entirely too exhausted to keep fighting with his son. "Let's find a place to turn in and rest up. We'll handle your brother after a good night's sleep."

Sam wanted to protest. He didn't have a valid reason, other than the fact that he wanted to defy his father. But, as he held Dean's limp and frightened form in his arms, he decided that a bit of rest might be a good idea after all. "Alright..." he relented.

Parking at a motel, John secured and paid for a room; Sam took the roomkey and half-carried Dean to the room while John went to retrieve a couple bags from the truck.

Getting settled, Sam took Dean to the bathroom and guided him to sit on the toilet lid. His mind flashed back to when he'd watched the demon clean up his brother. Hoping to make things easier on Dean, Sam made a conscious decision to recreate the experience as much as possible. "I'm not going to take the blindfold off, but I don't want you to keep it on all night. Okay?" He tried to keep his voice calm and soothing. He grabbed a wash cloth a moved to the sink to get it wet and soapy. Then he turned his attention to Dean and wondered the best way to clean him up. Sam's eyes strayed to the wet stain that tattled his big brother's accident, and he found himself a mix of baffled and embarrassed. He'd cleaned up Dean's blood and vomit. He'd helped him through sickness and injury without a second thought. But now, somehow, the experience seemed perverse. He caught himself reaching for Dean's shirt, only to stop. Then, he reached towards his pants and stopped again, unable to follow through. But, clearly, Dean needed to get cleaned up. "Dean," he tried, keeping his tone gentle and imploring, "can you undress yourself? I can get the shower ready..."

A shower seemed less invasive. And if Dean could do it on his own, that would be even better.

Dean breathed at even intervals but his shoulders were still tense.

Sam thought back to how the demon had been able to calm Dean, and he attempted to mimic the action by pulling the collar. His fingers crooked over the back of the ring and tugged, causing the barbs to dig into Dean's throat.

Dean released a soft noise, but his shoulders seemed to slump as a bit of apprehension faded.

It was going to be a long night.

But Sam was determined. For Dean, he could make this clinical and as easy as possible.

He set to work stripping Dean down, starting with the shirt and moving to the pants afterwards. Getting his brother naked was an uncomfortably quick process, and Dean didn't fuss one way or the other. Sam moved to the shower and turned the water on, adjusting the temperature. Once it was decidedly warm without being scalding, he reached for his brother. "Come on, Dean. Come on. You're going to get cleaned up." He waited a moment before clearing his throat and speaking in a too-chipper voice: "Bath? Come, get a bath, Dean. Bath."

Dean perked up, alert at hearing the word. The simple command. He could do baths. His clothes were off, and he enjoyed the way his handler always took the time to wash him. He almost smiled as he thought about how good it always felt to have his back washed with thick lathers of soap, thin hands gripping and moving his arms so that she had better access to different parts of his body. And, if he was really good, she'd reach down and...

And...

Sam gripped his brother by the arm and carefully helped him towards the shower, guiding him under the spray and ignoring the fact that he also got wet.

Dean stood still as a statue in the shower. He cautiously turned towards the rain and let it hit his face, soaking the blindfold. He let out a small satisfied hum before opening his mouth and letting some water in, swallowing once he had a shallow mouthful.

The water was warm and nice. Surprising and almost foreign, but welcome all the same.

Dean's mouth was split in a wide open smile as the water hit his hair and face and body and raced downward at the speed of gravity. He reached his hands to the blindfold but stopped shy of taking it off.

Seeing this (and keeping his eyes steadfastly above waist-level), Sam reached in and carefully removed the blindfold. He tossed it to the floor and kept his gaze on Dean's face, watching.

Upon having the blind removed, Dean's eyes darted back and forth, unfocused. Unfocused, as if they were trying to take in everything but processing everything entirely too slow.

Dean did this reflexively, Sam speculated, whenever he was presented with too much stimuli, be it visual, physical, mental, or emotional. But right now, Dean wasn't stressed.

Sam allowed his brother to enjoy the water.

And Dean did. He reached up and watched the water hit his hand and change direction. He stepped out of the water's reach until he was cold before stepping back into it to regain warmth. He smiled and looked around and looked like a child who hadn't a care in the world.

And Sam would believe what the visual was telling him, if not for the shear number of scars, new and old, and the memories that offered proof to counter any naivete.

With a sigh, the younger man eventually reached in to help wash his older brother. It was hurried and less efficient than it could have been, and Dean made a small noise of protest at the awkward rub-down, but it got done. Wash, rinse, done. Then, it was just a matter of getting Dean out of the shower, dried and dressed.

The water turned off.

Sam pulled his brother out and began to pat him dry with a towel. Then, flopping a towel over Dean's head carelessly, using him as a towel rack, he cracked the bathroom door open and called out to his father: "Clothes. Dean needs clothes." He was rewarded with a pair of sweatpants and an authentic Hawaiian shirt. Sam gave his father an incredulous look, to which John replied: "There are monsters in Hawaii too, Sam. Sue me."

Refusing to dignify that with a response, the youngest Winchester stepped back into the bathroom and found a ghost...

Only, it was less of a ghost and more of a towel-covered Dean sitting on the floor like a dejected child in a bed-sheet costume.

Sam fought back a smile as he grabbed and removed the towel and proceeded to help his brother into the ridiculous clothing.

Dean cooperated, eyes wide at the sight of the shirt. He looked genuinely confused, then amazed. Wearing it, he smoothed his hands down the fabric and smiled at Sam.

And Sam smiled back, happy to have helped.

The boys exited the bathroom together, Dean following a step behind Sam like a lost pup.

John waved as they entered the room that consisted of two twin beds. "I figure, we get some food, make sure Dean knows where the bathroom is, then decide who gets the beds. Odd man out gets the recliner."

With no complaints, the Winchesters were going to spend the night all under one roof for the first time in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The song I Love Rock and Roll was written in 1975 by Alan Merril. The song became famous when played by Joan Jett & the Blackhearts in 1982. -Mary Winchester dies in 1983. This is an important fact because I want the mentioned music to be consistent with the timeline.]  
> -Chapter is un-beta'd


	5. Chapter 5

 

Time progressed as it always did. The clock on the wall ticked, traffic outside made itself known with the harsh squeal of brakes and the honking of horns, and three Winchesters made themselves at home at a second rate motel with peeling wallpaper and a floor that was… in surprisingly fair condition, as if it had been recently treated to a professional cleaning.

They’d settled in, John sipping at a beer and skimming through a newspaper, zeroing in on a new hunt; Sam had picked up some food (among a laundry list of other things) and was doing his best to get his brother interested in eating the greasy burger and fries; and Dean found himself more interested in the room’s decor than the food presented.

“Come on, Dean, you should eat. This easily makes up sixty five percent of your usual diet.” Sam was trying, napkins in one hand and a bacon cheeseburger in the other, but his older brother just dropped down to a crouch and sniffed at a small trash bin with suspicious stains on the rim and interior. Working to quell his own irritation (-he'd been trying to get Dean to eat for a while), Sam dropped the burger and napkins on a small table and turned his attention to his father. “Anything catch your eye over there?”

John lowered the paper marginally, his eyes meeting that of his youngest before the paper slid back up into place. He hummed noncommittally, then tossed the paper aside altogether and dropped his hands into his lap. “You’re doing this all wrong. You know that, right? Or do you want your brother to continue to exist as a drooling retard?”

Sam’s face twisted into an indignant scowl. “He’s not a retard, and I’m pretty sure there is no wrong way to work with him. It’s not like there’s a manual on how to trigger human responses in someone who suffered Dean’s ordeal.” He crossed his arms and fixed a hard glare in his dad’s direction. He was tired and hungry, and Dean had already begun to wear him out.

The din of a trash bin being flipped and rolling halfway across the room drew the attention of the two hunters and they looked to see that Dean had knocked it over before dodging and hiding under the bed.

Sam resisted the urge to scrub a hand over his face. He needed to be patient and, for Dean, he could do that. “I’m working with him,” he said firmly. “Real food and routine communication. That’s the way to go. I don’t want to push him too hard.”

John shook his head in disapproval and got up from the bed he had claimed- the very bed that Dean had slipped under. “Word of advice, Sammy,” he said conversationally, kneeling down and reaching a hand out to grip his eldest son by the ankle, “Dean responds to authority.” Gripping tighter than necessary, fingers dipping beneath the fabric of the sweatpants and digging into tender flesh, he pulled. Hard. He forcefully dragged his son out from under the bed.

Dean’s shirt was shucked up via fraction and his torso scraped the carpet. His teeth clenched together and he growled softly. His abdomen would surely suffer the sting of rugburn.

Satisfied that Dean was out from under the bed, John released his son’s ankle and looked at him sternly.

Dean didn’t think; his retaliation was immediate and instinctual. Feral. Carnal. A reaction bred from being backed into the corner with limited options and the innate desire to survive. He launched himself at his father as fast (faster?) as humanly possible, his jaw almost unhinging with how wide it spanned, teeth meeting their mark and catching flesh.

Dean had bitten John on the forearm, teeth clamping and struggling to connect through skin, muscle, and bone but only succeeding in drawing blood and holding on.

John grit his teeth. He knew better than to pull his arm back; doing so would only serve to scrape his flesh and the raw tissue beneath. And, surely, the taste of blood would motivate Dean to continue the assault. No, that just wouldn’t do. Having raised the boy himself, John knew the best way to get through to his son was through authority and the threat of corporal repercussion. He forced his arm towards Dean, adding pressure to Dean’s jaw and causing the younger man to pull back in alarm, as if he'd been stricken, dislodging his teeth in the process.

“Down, now!” John ordered, voice loud and firm, leaving no room for argument.

In an instant, Dean hunched his shoulders and tucked his head towards his chest like an apologetic pet that knew he’d misbehaved.

John took a moment to see that the damage to his arm was minimal, then turned his primary focus on his son. “Dean,” John continued, voice firm but quieter than before, “go sit down.” He pointed to the recliner. When his boy made no move to oblige, John resorted to yelling: “Sit, now!”

Alarmed, Dean kept his head down and crawled towards the recliner. He rose up and maneuvered his feet beneath his body properly so he could sit in the plush chair. Sinking into the cushions, he looked distinctly uncomfortable.

John nodded in approval at having his orders obeyed, and he moved to stand as well. He walked over to where Sam sat at a small table. Grabbing the previously abandoned burger, he returned to his eldest son. “This,” he nodded to the item in question, “is food. And you, Dean, are going to sit there and eat the damn thing.” He grabbed Dean’s hand, held it palm-up, and slapped the burger home.

Head still down, Dean stole a glance at the food he was expected to eat. He didn’t want it. It looked and smelled alright, but he was certain it would make him sick. These people were confusing him, and he missed his handler. He wanted his old hard chair with the restraints, and he wanted his blindfold. He wanted his handler’s sweet voice and warm hands and the icebox of a room he'd been regularly confined to. Against his better judgment, he lifted his chin and looked around the motel room, whining softly in distress as he took in all the elements he’d been so curious about before. The nuances... All of it was strange yet gave him a sense of deja vu. The familiarity rattled something in his brain and made his chest feel hollow. Somehow, this setting was something he should know. As sure as he knew the path his mommy took him on walks, he knew this type of room.

Simple and box-like. Not a dog box. The furnishings made it perfectly clear that it was made for people. A people box, for temporary housing.

Thinking, trying to dredge up thoughts like this, it hurt on a massive scale- the kind of pain that Dean could feel as deep as his teeth. It goaded the type of nervousness that made him want to gnaw on something. Gnawing and chewing, a way to distract himself from something or another, in this case: a massive headache that had quickly grown to cover the entirety of his skull and travel down into his neck and shoulders.

Tension.

Stress.

Conflict of interests and pain.

But, Dean pushed through it and kept his wits about him as much as he could. He could be mindless and content, but this seemed important, so he continued to actively observe.

The wallpaper was pastel yellow, cheerful though peeling. The little upturned ends, torn and frayed- he wanted to pick and pull at them and see if he could rip off a big sheet of it. The carpet was fair beneath his bare feet, with very few visible stains and only a little rough in texture. The lamp was elegant and wide with an Eco-friendly rectangular shade. He wanted to knock it over and see if the crash would be loud; if it would break into a few solid pieces or splinter into a million shards. If he sniffed the air, he could smell shoes and clothes and aftershave, beer and paper and greasy food. And he could smell the distinction between the two men that had taken him away from his handler.

All of this had to mean something. Something big and borderline phenomenal. He was onto something, remembering something.

Memories flashed, various rooms, all similar to this one but all different in minor ways.

Dean could tell, he'd been in a lot of rooms like this one.

His eyes oscillated, drawing in details and landing on a bag that had been left partway open to reveal ammunition.

Bullets. Rounds. Salt rounds. Consecrated iron. Silver.

Hunting.

All at once, Dean couldn't get enough air. He sucked in a breath but the air seemed to punch itself into his lungs and leave him winded and disoriented. His eyes lost focus and his vision blurred. His gaze settled and gradually sharpened on the burger in his hand just in time to pick up the sound of a distant voice telling him to eat.

“Eat,” John demanded, repeating himself for the third time. His patience was wearing thin. “Eat, or don’t eat at all.”

Sam frowned at the harsh tone and overall method John was opting for. His brother didn’t deserve the treatment. Dean had already been through a hellish ordeal, and he currently looked a little ill- as if he might throw up at any time. It was concerning, and it only confirmed Sam's thoughts that, for recovery, Dean should be eased away from his year as a captive and into something more normal. The process should be slow and delicate. Dean deserved a more nurturing environment than their father was capable of providing… Another supporting reason for Sam to believe that Jess could help. She could be nurturing, and she was smart, and she'd taken psychology courses...

But John was still something of a stick in the road. An obstacle and a deterrent. And he was unyielding, determined to get his eldest son to eat. Surely, giving Dean food and getting him to both accept and eat it was an establishment of trust as well as a link to the young man's former (normal) identity, and John hoped to tap into that. Food. Authority. Structure. It all added up to what would bring his son back.

Dean knew what the older man expected of him. The demand was simple enough. He was given food and told to eat. He’d been trained not to question the morsels given, so the logical thing for him to do would be to eat. But the food was heavy with grease, and the bun had sesame seeds, and after being recently spoiled with a tasty rabbit, he really didn’t want to punish his stomach with this mess of a meal. His mind warred between what he wanted and what he’d been told to do.

Conflict.

Intensity.

His already aching head pounded all the more; he could feel his own blood pulsing, burning, so he tried not to think. He tried to shut down. He forced away thoughts of freewill and opted to rely on his baser nature. He could eat. And he could follow simple orders. And he could eat, especially if he’d been ordered to eat. So, yeah, he could eat. And he could follow orders, and he could eat...

Holding the burger atop his palm, fingers curled up but not really gripping, he raised his hand and lowered his mouth, trying to meet his food halfway. He brushed his mouth against the top bun but failed to get a bite. The bun was soft and the condiments below were making it a little soggy. He flicked his tongue out to taste it. The bun was getting cold; it was a little greasy with very little actual taste, and the texture of the seeds was unwelcome. Still, he lapped his tongue over the bun and tried to focus on the smell of beef and bacon and cheese. He closed his mouth around an angle of the food, managing to draw in bread and meat and cheese and-it was good.

Oh, God, yes. It was good.

Grease dripped down his fingers and the food did wonderful things on his tongue.

So good.

He pulled his head back, closed his eyes, and chewed with an open mouth. Manners be damned, the food was amazing. He let out an undignified sound and swallowed. He felt the itch/scratch/tickle as it slid down his throat, and then he dove in for another bite, crushing his face into it and not caring that the condiments and grease smeared all over his cheeks and chin. He chomped, chewing less and swallowing with gusto.

A few bites more, and he practically threw the rest of the burger, hands flying up to wrap around his own throat as he gagged and coughed and hacked, pushing air out and failing to pull air back in.

Choking.

Eyes watering.

He clawed and swatted at his throat as if he could cut and dig in to remove the offending clog.

John watched, wordless, motionless. Coddling wouldn’t help here. Dean could handle this.

Sam, however, felt different. His brother was choking. His brother was scared and couldn’t breathe. His brother had been tortured and saved… yet could very well die due to a mishap involving food post-rescue. Sam refused to let it happen. In a flash, he was by Dean’s side, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him up out of the chair. He hugged Dean from behind, hands meeting and compressing to perform the Heimlich. It took only seconds, but the expansion of time felt so much longer-

-and then Dean hacked up a wad of cheese-coated burger. The offending morsel hit the carpeted floor in a big, wet, slobbery glob of nasty regurgitation.

Newly able to breathe, Dean gulped in air like a dying man. His heart hammered in his chest and his hands were shaking with a mix of fear and relief.

Sam slowly pulled away from his brother and moved to get a good look, only to take on a forlorn expression of his own as he noted unfocused moss-colored eyes.

Unfocused. Unseeing. Darting back and forth and never settling on anything.

The absolution of blind panic.

More than anything, the youngest Winchester wished he could communicate openly and easily with his brother: to know what was going through Dean’s head.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam said softly, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

John scoffed at the display. “You’re too soft on him, Sam.”

“You were going to watch him choke to death!” Sam accused, voice raising on its own accord.

John didn’t deny the statement; he simply waved it off before countering: “I got him to eat, which is more than you could manage. Dean needs a firm hand, or he’s just going to-”

“He needs patience!” Sam was insistent and persistent. He wanted Dean’s trust, not Dean’s fear and obedience. He’d get his brother back to a healthy state of mind, and he’d do it through patience and wheedling.

With a sharp, annoyed breath, John reclaimed his previously discarded paper and muttered: “If I’d known you’d be such a pussy and that there was only one demon holding Dean, I’d have left you at Stanford and come for your brother days ago.”

Sam’s eyes widened, large and wounded as he registered this new information.

His dad would have preferred to leave him in the dark: leave him at Stanford, completely unaware of Dean’s predicament.

What’s more, his father could have rescued Dean sooner… but didn’t.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” White hot rage rifled through Sam, starting in his core and radiating outward.

John didn’t bother answering. Instead, he instructed: “Clean up his mess. See if you can get him to eat more. Make sure he uses the damn bathroom. Then get him to bed. We’ll deal with Dean's future housing in the morning.” With that, John looked back to the newspaper once more, his interest getting piqued by a couple mysterious deaths surrounding a railroad. It might be worth looking into, and he’d gone hunting with less indication. Still, in the back of his mind, he warred with the fate of his eldest son and the state of his relationship with his youngest.

None of this was supposed to happen.

John and Sam had butted heads, but it was only natural. Sam had always been opinionated and spirited, always needing to ask questions and seek a greater truth, always needing to rally himself against an opposing force. Whereas John had wanted his youngest to help with the family business and bring justice (or, rather, mislabeled vengeance) to the memory and loss of the woman who had made them family, Sam had deviated, taking his researching skills and applying them to actual school and plotting a life of college and normalcy beyond.

John didn’t like it. He didn’t approve of it. He’d spit fire and argue his side of things until he was red-faced and ready to burst, but… he wouldn’t actively sabotage Sam’s dream. If his youngest wanted to go, he could go. But John was going to make damn sure his boy was safe.

When Sam had left, John waited, biding his time while Sam could make the trip and settle in. Then, he’d gone to California himself to check things out, disguising himself as a groundskeeper while he checked into local lores, legends, horror stories, fables, etc. He checked for emf and cold spots and decided it was safe enough, so he and Dean jumped in on the nearest hunt from there.

And that brings John’s focus to Dean, and strictly Dean. So much had happened in such a short amount of time...

-It had been a poltergeist that they were after, during the hunt that went wrong- the one before Dean’s abduction. But, it was more than a poltergeist. All was going well, routine and simple. John got tossed back and quickly got to his feet. He expected Dean to be ready with a salt round, but the salt never came, and the entity continued to throw a tantrum. Meanwhile, another creature happened by- and this would be what caused the folly. The new creature, a shapeshifter who had taken on the form (and subsequently, the identity, of a witch…) had encroached on the scene with the intent to harvest herbs and roots from an overgrown garden on the poltergeist’s grounds. Moments prior to John being thrown by the poltergeist’s insistent wrath, Dean caught sight of what he presumed to be a trespasser- a civilian, at that. The younger hunter had tried to signal the alleged human, and when that failed he moved closer to offer a warning. The human/shapeshifter/witch (that is to say, what Dean thought was human but was really a shapeshifter looking and living as a witch) saw the hunter as an immediate threat and procured a nasty looking dagger with a wicked curved blade and some kind of animal skin wrapped around the hilt. Dean had been taken by surprise when the new creature (which definitely wasn’t human) had attacked him with an impressive speed and strength. And, almost simultaneously, the poltergeist struck him as well, tossing him headfirst into a pillar. Dean fell limply and the shapeshifter closed in. After John’s recovery from the initial supernatural toss, he managed to burn the spirit’s connection to the world (an old heirloom that had been cursed and hidden among the property). By then, Dean’s shotgun was on the ground, but the young man himself was nowhere to be seen. John found him days later, unconscious, bound by rope and handcuffed to an exposed pipe in the bathroom of a condemned and dilapidated building.

John had rescued his son, helped to tend his wounds and get him set up in a motel room, and then set out to chase down the shapeshifter that had caused Dean’s injuries.

John was gone mere hours because the creature was habitual and easy to find, slay, and dispose of.

He came back to their shared motel room to find it empty.

Dean was gone, taken, spirited away by some demon scumbag.

The initial -and wrong- assumption was that Dean had willingly left, possibly to head to Bobby's or make a trip to visit Sam, or to just get some air... but the pieces didn't fit. Dean hadn't taken any of his things. Not even his boots or the hand-me-down leather jacket.

It would be over a year before John found his son again, and when he would, Sam would be with him.

The whole family-thing, it seemed doable in John’s head.

The oldest Winchester had a plan.

He did the footwork and the research to find Dean’s whereabouts, taking on various hunts along the way (the succubus being the most memorable). A psychic named Pamela Barnes had been the key factor to locate his missing son. Then, he’d gone to fetch Sammy and get him involved. Completing the all-important hunt together and reuniting the family as a whole once more, it was supposed to be a good thing.

But there had already been so much bickering, and Dean’s condition was worse than he thought it would be.

So, John made an effort to calm down and delay the final decision on how to handle things. He’d taken to looking for a new hunt because, no matter the outcome, he was going to keep hunting. With or without his boys, but preferably _with,_ he was going to eventually find and kill that yellow-eyed son of a bitch.

Decidedly done with the roundabout stress, John finished the beer he’d been nursing during his time at the motel and headed to bed. He kicked his shoes off and claimed his designated bed, trusting Sam to watch over Dean.

Sam did watch over Dean, but his self-assigned mission was more than that.

He knew Dean’s state of being was fragile, and John’s hardass nature could be insufferable.

During his earlier trip to get food, Sam had picked up a few things for Dean and himself, along with a case of beer for John.

The youngest Winchester had a plan of his own, and it was about to be employed.

Come morning, John would awake, and both his boys would be gone. It would be Flagstaff all over again, but with both sons gone and the consequences incapable of reaching them.

Sam would get Dean somewhere safe. Away from their father’s negligence and abrasive nature.

He just had to call Jess first.

And make sure he had everything Dean would need.

And try to get Dean to cooperate…

His mind made up, Sam reached into his own personal goody bag and pulled out a soft chew toy; it had come with a matching nylon collar and leash, but the collar would be discarded soon and he'd left the leash in the bag. He gave the toy to Dean and quietly told him to “Stay, and be good, Dean. Stay. I’ll be right back. Stay. Stay...” And then he’d stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind him as softly as possible.

He walked a little ways away before pulling out his cellphone and making the call.

“Hey, Jess,” he greeted first, his lips stretching around a smile that lit up his entire face and made his eyes gleam.

“Sam-the-Man!” came a voice from the other line, but it didn’t belong to Jessica.

“Brady?” Sam asked, but the question was unnecessary. He knew that voice.

He heard a giggle in the background, and the sound was so undeniably Jess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter un-beta'd.  
> More is on the way.


	6. Chapter 6

The phone was pressed tight between Sam's fingers and angled towards his ear. Caught off guard and muddled chest-deep in stress, his mind had conjured up some of the worst scenarios, most involving an affair and betrayal but a few involving demonic possession. And he had left Jess all alone, with no knowledge of the monsters that lurked on the periphery and preyed upon unsuspecting humans.

For a moment, he blamed his dad. John had come to collect Sam and derail a night with Jess, during which he could have held and protected her against evil. He could have lined the doors and windows with salt and stashed an iron wrench nearby. He could have etched or painted devil traps and hidden them on the ceiling or beneath the decorative rugs. He could have been open and honest with her and taught her Latin incantations and given her a bottle full of holy water-

Jess would be safe, if Sam could have been with her. Or, if she knew enough to protect herself...

For just a moment, Sam could almost understand his father's view on things. The need to train himself and Dean, for protection just as much as the vendetta. And, if something horrendous had happened to Jess, he could almost see himself following in his father's footsteps, obsessing over hunting: seeking justice for the loss of a loved one.

But, Sam was not his father.

And, as far as he knew, Jess was fine.

Jumping to conclusions wouldn't solve a thing, especially when there might not be a problem that needed solved. Well, there might not be a Jessica-related problem to solve. There was still the matter of his brother's current situation and fragile frame of mind.

And, therein lies the reason for the phone call. Granted, there were a great many things he wanted to say:

So many questions about how she'd been and if she'd been sleeping well. What she ate for dinner or dessert, what she was wearing...  He wanted to ask if she'd gone ahead and watched the movie the night he left. Wanted to know if she repainted her toenails while singing along to some upbeat boyband song that made her smile like the sun was created just for her.  
  
He wanted to spew a collective series of ''­­I love you's" and "I miss you's" and exaggerated kissy sounds with facial expressions to match- just for the sake of doing so; it's what young couples did, and it was childish, and it never failed to bring a brilliant light into his girl's already beautiful eyes. Sam played this little game more often than he cared to admit, but it never got old.

Jess always found a way to one-up any love confession, even if it was with a simple: 'I love you more, Sam.'

Their words would fall away, replaced by soft touches and playful kisses, and if he played his cards right and she'd remembered her birth control, then...-

No.

Not right now.

Right now, there was something just a bit more important than how Sam and Jess tended to lure one another into the boudoir, and that's what needed to be discussed. The reason for the phone call. The reason for the distance between them. He needed to tell her all about Dean- well, to give her some version of the truth.

But of course, even with such a simple task as making a call to his girl, there had to be an obstacle and it came in the form of a friend named Brady. Tyson Brady, the good kid who played chess and taught Sam to play as well; the kid whose grades began to slip and he began to experiment with drugs, which turned into a cycle of rehab and relapse; and, the kid who couldn’t quite cut it in college but still managed to get and maintain a job and bunked with Sam and Jess now and then because his rent money often found itself in the hands of a dealer- _THAT_ Brady was alone with Sam’s girlfriend

And, Jess, being lonely, tended to have clouded judgement on just how much she could hold her liquor. A couple wine coolers could easily be switched up with mixed drinks that tended to be more potent...

But, no. No hypotheticals. Because Brady had handed the phone to Jess, and Jess was sober.

Unfortunately, while on the phone with his girl, Sam couldn’t find the words to mention Dean or to ask how she was doing. He just kept thinking about Brady and that smug greeting.

 _Sam-the-Man._ It was such a Brady thing to say. And that fact alone had Sam second guessing the line between truth and scenario.

“You and Brady...” The words could come off as vague and non-threatening, almost conversational, but Sam’s tone held all the scarcely-veiled elements of accusation. The bark of alarm, the sharp edge of confusion and mistrust, and the underlying darkness that demanded for answers to be unearthed.

So, maybe his theories and overactive assumptions weren't as subtle as he'd thought.

Jess’s reaction was almost instant. “Oh, my God, Sam. Me and Ty are playing Jenga and watching the news- there's this big fire, and...- We are totally _not_ fucking, if that’s what you-”

“No!” Sam had to amend quickly. It was as if his anger had been doused in a holy water slushy. Cold and pure and awakening. Because, Jess would never cheat on him, and Brady visited enough that he practically lived there. “No, Jess…" A heavy sigh fell from his mouth, followed by the beginning of what could possibly lead to the discussion he needed to have. "It’s just been rough here-”

“How’s your brother?" Jess's voice, curious and concerned and right on the mark of what her boyfriend needed to talk to her about.

Sam couldn't help the small smile that formed.

"Dean, right? Did he have a hunting accident?”

"Who's Dean?" Brady chimed in with the kind of enthusiasm that made Sam's smile widen to put his dimples on full display.

Because, yeah, his girl and his best friend. They'd be willing and able to help.

"Dean is Sam's big brother. Likes to hunt, and he had an accident. Sam went with his dad to help." Jess' voice again, though she sounded a bit exasperated, as if she'd told this story a dozen times.

Brady just fell quiet, and Sam could easily understand why. The way Jess had explained it, it sounded as if the Winchesters were close to one another and reliable in times of woe, and while that wasn't necessarily wrong it painted a picture of something that came with a little less bickering and body-burning. It sounded like something akin to an after school special. And Brady's resulting silence was likely due to the strained relationship between himself and his own parents.

If Sam listened intently enough through the light static of the phone, he could hear the sound of small wooden blocks being stacked and slid against one another as his girlfriend and his best friend readied another game of Jenga. But he focused on Jess's voice and initial words of inquiry about Dean. Now was the opportune time to mention his brother. Of course, he wouldn’t give her the full story, not until he made one up first.

He opened his mouth to answer, Dean’s name on the tip of his tongue, but some shuffling and ruffling sounds gave him pause.

Cursing.

A distinct 'Ow!' sound.

Rustling, something passing over the phone’s speaker. Possibly fabric.

Muffled voices.

Brady’s laugh and Jess’s shriek of surprise and disgust.

Then:

“Sam...” Jessica’s angelic voice tinged in amusement and disapproval. “Sam, I can’t come to the phone right now...” Her voice was still muffled and a little distant. “Brady took the phone and has it in his pants. I’m pretty sure it’s wedged between his junk and his underwear. Oh, God! The receiver is probably pressed against his balls!" More stifled laughter. Then, "I’ll talk to you later, baby,” her last sentence came out loud, like playful pretend yelling.

More shuffling.

"Catch ya later, Sam-Man!" Brady's shout for closure.

Then the line cut off.

Sam suddenly found himself thoroughly annoyed. Had this call not meant so much to him and carried so much importance, he would be fighting off a smile. Hell, he might double over with laughter. He liked Brady, flaws and all. And Jess could be just immature enough to encourage a bit of crazy.

Sam had to push all bias thoughts aside because there was still the matter of Dean. He aimed to take Dean away tonight -away from John- but he really needed to tell Jess first. It wouldn’t be right to just show up with the iron word of ‘my damaged brother will be staying with us indefinitely and I expect you to help me take care of him.’

He finally lowered the phone and his eyes met the darkened screen.

Plan A hit a bit of a snag.

He needed a Plan B, for now. Plan A would be in effect, but not yet.

He thought back to what he’d said to his father, and he instantly recalled the idea of involving Bobby.

Bobby Singer could be good for Dean. The older hunter would be well prepared, and he'd be something familiar to Dean. Could keep him grounded and give him projects to focus on. There was so much potential that it was almost better than Plan A.

So, Plan B.

Plan Bobby.

Sam was already making the call and listening to the ring before his mind had fully looped on the idea.

Bobby had a number of phones, landlines, personal/business/personal-business cellphones, burners, some of which belonged to Bobby himself and others that belonged to his own hunter-helping alter egos.

The number Sam calls is a business line that connects him to Singer’s Salvage Yard. At first pickup, before even receiving a greeting, he jumps right in: “I hear you have a ‘67 Chevy Impala...”

The surprised hitch in an old man’s breath is audible over the phone. “Sam...”

“This is Singer’s Salvage Yard, right?” Sam’s playing coy, unnecessarily, but he's suddenly paranoid, like maybe this call might be monitored, so he keeps it sounding like a business deal. “I know it’s late, but I’d like to set up an appointment...”

They do schedule an appointment, but Sam plans to show up long before the scheduled date.

If anyone, human or demon, is trying to track himself or his brother, he’d leave them a trail of half-truths and bad clues.

Sam’s got it half figured out in his head. He knows he should take the time to work out all the details, but his biggest concern is getting his brother to safety. In his mind, Bobby is safe… and there’s a chance that John is not. Ergo, the only logical thing to do, is…

-Dean's voice is wordless: a soulful sound pitched high in panic, reaching through the walls and assaulting Sam's ears.

The phone is disconnected and slipped into Sam's pocket, and the youngest Winchester is racing towards his brother at a pace that leaves him half-stumbling as he opens the door to their motel room and nearly falls inside.

John's awake and using most of his body to pin Dean to the chair.

Dean is drooling, spitting, thrashing, howling and clawing in defense. His antifreeze green eyes are wide, but he's not staring at his father; he's staring through John and seeing something else entirely.

The stench of sulfur is thick in the air.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter is un-beta'd.  
> (I will go back and take care of minor errors later.)


	7. Chapter 7

  
There's breathing, so much of it at different intervals from the trio of Winchesters: a fractured symphony. Sam's breath is caught between his lungs and his mouth, a slow and straggling vacuum that isn't doing its job correctly. John's breath comes through fiercely gritted teeth, and it's harsh and constant like a snorting bull that's been jabbed and primed for a fight. And Dean's breath pulls in quick and shallow and releases itself in a collection of frantic half-aborted whines that sound more animal than human, like a cross between a gasp and a high strung yap.  
  
While breathing is important biologically and organically, it is also semi-mechanic. Action and reaction and occurrence, those are what matter most, and the youngest of the three men finds himself grossly inactive, frozen as he stared at the scene set before him.  
  
Dean was in the throes of panic, and any trace of fear he had was morphing into a feral, aggressive behavior as their father forcibly held him down.  
  
Sam should be doing something.  
  
Helping John, or helping Dean. But he hadn't a clue as to whom he was supposed to help.  
  
What would benefit his brother most in this unfathomable situation? He could pull John off, but he wasn't sure what result would follow. Or, he could help John maintain his hold on Dean, but the idea alone felt a bit like betrayal.  
  
Sam's senses latched onto the smell of sulfur. "Dad... Sulfur," he warned. It seemed important.  
  
But John was already aware and had his mind wrapped around something else entirely as Dean took a swipe at his head and managed to land a sloppy cuff along his orbital bone. The glancing blow was more annoying than hindering. "Dammit, Sam! I told you to watch your brother!" John's words came in out in a fretful shout heavily shadowed with warning. His own anger and disappointment were escalating, and if left unchecked it would turn explosive.  
  
The words hit and seemingly gutted Sam in an unexpected way, and guilt blossomed in his chest like a dull ache. He should have been watching his brother, yes, but at the same time, he didn't feel like he'd done anything wrong by abandoning his post.

For just a moment, in his mind, Sam was drawn to thinking back to when he and Dean were still kids being left in crappy motel rooms- the kind that were much worse than their current stead and had roaches running laps between pieces of furniture and mousetraps lain in every corner (some or which already held a dead critter, with its neck snapped and its eyes bulging, blood seeping into the wooden base of the trap and staining it...) Sam recalled numerous occasions when Dean had been instructed 'Watch your brother' and 'Look out for Sammy' and 'Stupid boy, why did you leave him alone.' He knew that Dean would sometimes skip out, but those times were few and far between and never for long, and he always made sure Sam was safe, tucked in bed or buried nose-deep in homework. And, sure, John rode Dean hard about it, blowing his top about the slightest indiscretion. Sam understood it. He got it enough to know his brother wasn't at fault. Dean had been six, nine, twelve, or fifteen. Some age or another that most people considered to be a kid, and yet any semblance of childhood was decidedly something Dean couldn't afford to have.

Dean should have been eating ice cream or going to arcades instead of feeding his little brother and practicing loading and unloading a growing arsenal of guns.  
  
And, being the stereotypical little brother, Sam hadn't made it easy on his big brother. He complained about food and chores; he ate too much and took the remote when Dean tried to watch something on tv. He left messes and had no intention on cleaning them up. And, when he was old enough to have his own opinions, he gathered all his pent up emotions and slung them at their father, expecting his big brother to back him up simply because Dean had become something of a caregiver rather than a stereotypical older sibling.

Ergo, supporting Sam in this manner was something else Dean was expected to do.

Watch Sammy, protect Sammy, keep Sammy fed and happy without completely coddling Sammy.

Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. Until there was little room left in Dean's life for anything else until John instructed otherwise.

When push came to shove, Dean usually found himself between Sam and John like a living thing to be used for tug-of-war, his jaw tight and teeth clenched so hard that his gums hurt. He never wanted to choose sides. He wanted to protect his brother and please his father all in one go, but doing one seemed to stint the other, and more often than not he turned and ushered Sam to an early bed before trying to smooth things over with John.

Sam could be safe and John could be satisfied, but those two things were mostly incongruent.  
  
Thinking back, Sam wondered if he'd been too bratty and obnoxious. Then again, little brothers were supposed to be that way, and when John wasn't around, Dean seemed to appreciate the way they acted as siblings. Dean would call Sam a nerd for doing homework on a Saturday, and Sam would call Dean a jerk, then Dean would round off with a taunting 'bitch.' And back then, hearing Dean direct the vulgarity at him was relatively new, and it had made him laugh and cover his mouth until he'd gotten used to it. A few more comments, and then they were rolling around, wrestling, Dean forcing submission due to his size and weight, and Sam flailing uselessly and grumbling, and- 'Watch out for your brother' and 'Protect your brother' and-  
  
And, the majority of Dean's life, since their mother's death, had been a broken record of events and commands circulating around Sam's well-being, and now Sam found it in himself to feel shame for his misgivings. He should have been watching Dean instead of making the phone call. Hell, he could have stayed with Dean during the call, but he wasn't about to confess this to John. Not when he still blamed his dear ol' dad for neglecting Dean and allowing the abduction to begin with.  
  
With his will and wit restored, Sam grit his teeth and glared at his father, watched anger and frustration morph the older man's features into something hard and unforgiving. More importantly, Sam saw the way his brother struggled like a mad man but failed to get enough leverage between himself and the damn chair.  
  
Dean was trying so hard and getting nowhere. He was going to end up hurting himself if something wasn't done.  
  
Sam thought back to the demon bitch that had been Dean's handler. He thought about the things that calmed his brother and quickly located the previously discarded blindfold. Taking the fabric in his hands and approaching the other two Winchesters, Sam cleared his throat and announced: "Dad, the collar." He slipped the blindfold over his brother's head and adjusted the band to properly cover Dean's eyes.  
  
With the faintest nod, John moved his hand to grip at Dean's throat, palm pressing the barbed collar deep into his son's flesh and drawing out small rivulets of blood as the raw skin and tissue was pricked and scraped and scratched open.  
  
Pressure between the collar and the series of small puncture wounds, along with the reduction of sight, seemed to do the trick. Dean's struggles lessened and he gradually fell lax in the chair, head tilted back and face angled up at the ceiling as if he could see something no one else could.  
  
With a world-weary sigh, Sam threads a hand through his own hair in a habitual way that relieves tension. As an afterthought, the same hand leaves his own head and drops down to meet his brother's short locks. He cards his fingers and allows his nails to lightly scratch at Dean's scalp; he hopes his ministrations are calming. Somehow, it's Sam's own worry that seems to ebb away as he continues the slow, even strokes. The simple action is borderline therapeutic, and Sam doesn't want to dwell on the implications; he doesn't want to compare Dean to a therapy dog or any kind of animal.  
  
Dean is his _brother,_ after all. His very human brother that deserves the same dignity and respect as all other humans.

There's a hint of regret forming, at using the blindfold and collar to calm Dean down. They should be able to use words and reason, but Dean didn't seem receptive of most speech or logic. It was a strange thought and curiosity, just how much humanity relied on communication.

More so, how much the corrupted Winchester had lost over the course of a year. It seemed implausible, in retrospect, that someone could lose themselves to this extent, and yet, it happened. It wouldn't be an easy fix. It would take time and dedication. And, hopefully once they were able to trigger some human reactions and memories in Dean, it would be just a matter of making a few connections and remembering who he is. Then again, as per the Winchester curse, nothing is ever so simple.  
  
John's voice breaks whatever spell had woven itself into the picture. "You were supposed to watch him," he says, but this time he doesn't sound angry. He just sounds terrible. Worse, he looks exhausted, with heavy bags setting beneath his eyes and the skin around his mouth sagging to make him look at least ten years older.  
  
Sam realizes then that maybe John does care. Maybe Dean's absence had taken a toll after all. With a bit of reluctance, he forms a response and makes it verbal. "I swear, I only stepped out of the room for a minute to make a phone call." It's not a good answer; it barely qualifies as an excuse. It isn't acceptable. In the past, during their youth, Sam is sure his brother would get the belt for such weak reasoning. For a moment, there's curiosity, if their dad will turn the same brutality on him for his lack of responsibility.  
  
Sam isn't a little kid; he'd fight back. He'd do what his brother never did, and he'd defend himself against wrongful judgement and unjust punishments. He's already tensing up, preparing for retaliation. His knees bend a little and his feet slide apart to widen his stance and affix his balance- in case something happens. In case John moves in to strike in any way. He's as ready as he can be, a tightly coiled spring of long limbs and intent, fire in his veins and venom in his lungs. He wants to spew poison and remind his dad what a shitty father he's been.  
  
But, nothing happens. There are seemingly no repercussions.  
  
Seconds tick away and the moment passes. Sam's resolve weakens.  
  
Having been hovering over Dean's calming form and holding him to the chair, John finally eased himself off of his eldest son and glared wholeheartedly at his youngest. "You were supposed to be watching him, Sam." Again, the eldest hunter is a broken record, but his dark tone pushes for the conversation to actually go somewhere other than half-baked apologies and nasty accusations. He already lost Mary; Sam ran off; and he's not about to lose Dean too. Selfish as he is, he wants to hold onto as much of his family as he can. He just hasn't found the right way to do it yet.  
  
Sam tries to explain his case, though he knows it's futile. John's only asking again because he's itching for a something familiar. "I was watching- I _did_ watch him," Sam defended himself in earnest, "but I needed to make a quick call, and Dean was fine when I left him. He had a toy to keep him occupied. And-"  
  
"Exactly, Sam." John stared at his youngest with an unreadable expression. His voice was tired, haggard, but his words were more than enough to make up for it. "You left him. Again. You've got quite a track record for being there for your family, don't you Sam?"  
  
Sam opened his mouth to retort but closed it just as fast. His face flushed and his chest burned with indignation. The desire to point fingers and shove the blame back on his father was so strong that the accompanying ache was almost physical. The whole 'I left, yeah, but you were never there' speech wasn't going to help. It would only further remind them both just how much they had failed Dean, when all Dean ever did was try to keep everyone together.

When Mary died, John didn't just lose a wife, Dean lost a mother as well. John didn't just become a hunter, Dean became a parent, a son, and a soldier-in-training all at once. Beyond that, it's questionable whether or not Dean had his own identity.  
  
After all that, now, Dean couldn't even keep himself together.  
  
"I'm taking Dean to Souix Falls." Sam wasn't even sure why he said it when it was supposed to be this covert operation.  
  
John stared at Sam, jaw muscles tense, their eyes meeting like a set of trains on the same track and working towards a head-on collision. "There's a diner there that has some good pie. Dean would like it," the older hunter said, a hint of a challenge in his tone.  
  
Sam shook his head and opted to remain blunt and open. Their family had enough secrets and skeletons, and he was going to make his intentions perfectly clear. "I'm taking him to see Bobby. And if you do anything to try and stop me, the authorities just might find out about a few fraudulent credit cards and fake ID's, not the mention your arsenal..." It was a dirty threat, and Sam should have been above it, but he wasn't. He'd been on the fast track to being a successful lawyer, and he had a pretty good idea just how much trouble his father would be in.  
  
He messed up, leaving Dean alone to make a phone call, but that matter was behind them, and he was going to take care of Dean. And to do this, he needed Bobby. Having given it more thought, it only made more sense. Because, they knew surprisingly little  about Dean's new condition. For all they knew, he could have a spell on him. Some kind of hex or curse. Something to modify his behavior or make him more susceptible to whatever the demon bitch had done to him.  
  
He hoped it was a simple thing that could be easily reversed. With Bobby's help, they'd find out and cure Dean.  
  
With that thought and his father's lack of argument on the matter, Sam felt a little at ease.

There was hope, and there was the beginnings of a plan.

And it would all start with Bobby.  
  
...  
  
_-Dean-_  
  
The world fell into a state of darkness as the fabric of the blind pulled over his eyes and made everything seem more bearable. Losing his sight took away the stress in an 'if I can't see it, it can't see me' sort of way. The familiar pressure of his collar against the raw and tender flesh of his throat was strangely satisfying and had him falling slack into the chair.  
  
It wasn't his usual chair. It was soft and plush, and he couldn't wrap his fingers around the arm rests, and there were no straps... but he liked chairs. Chairs were good. He sat in chairs. Chairs were familiar.  
  
His blinded eyes were cast upwards, but he didn't need sight to see what loomed overhead.  
  
He could smell the sulfur.  
  
His mommy was near, biding her time and watching over him. He couldn't see her, but he knew his handler wouldn't leave him to go with the hunters for long. He could relax and think about her touch and her voice.  
  
His mind supplied memories while he lounged in that too-plush chair.  
  
He thought of her humming to him, washing his face with a damp cloth and combing her fingers through his hair. He liked memories like that.  
  
He tried not to think about his earlier memories, when he was still learning. Back when he still tried to call her names and use his hands to pick up tools that could be used as weapons.  
  
His punishment for that had been lax compared to others, but he found himself strapped in with a choice. For using his hands, he could either have his thumbs cut off- and she'd showed him the bolt cutters; she would do it; she would cut off his thumbs and force them into his mouth before securing a gag; he'd be forced to eat them or choke to death- or, the latter and chosen punishment: she could just break a finger or two and place careful cuts in his palms and along his knuckles to remind him not to flex his fingers to try to pick anything up.  
  
Good pets didn't have a use for thumbs anyways.  
  
She'd been merciful, only breaking his index fingers and slicing his hands up, but she'd gone overboard with the slicing. She'd sliced and cut so much that there wasn't much skin left on them when she was done. He'd learned his lesson though, and his hands had scabbed and scarred, becoming an entire mass of flesh that looked fine enough from a distance but differed in color from his wrists, as if he was wearing gloves made from his own scars.  
  
She approved of him walking on two legs. He moved well, and he was tall, and she liked his build. Two legs were good, useful, and separated him from lowly fur-mongrels.  
  
He learned to be good for her, and he liked her praise when it was offered. He could take the punishment as long as there was a reward to counter it when he behaved. He could understand and thrive on that.

If something caused hurt, he knew to fix his behavior. If something felt good, he'd done well and would continue to do well. He was a smart boy. Her sweet boy. And if her hands on him weren't only limited to petting, he was perfectly fine with that. He liked it, when she'd strap his wrists in and leave his ankles free, sit on his denim-clad lap and slip her hands beneath his shirt. Her hot skin on his in the cold room was a sensation he couldn't get over. Blindfolded, partially strapped in, rocking his hips and seeking a friction provided by the weight of his handler.

Just thinking about it had his mouth twitching into a semblance of a smile, his vocal chords rumbled and rattled low and deep in a way that warmed his chest and had his jaw quivering.

He was good. And it was so easy to be good for her. There was something akin to bliss that washed over him when he fell into a mindless and obedient state.  
  
The 'not talking' thing... It had never been a rule. No direct command. He just picked it up after a while because he'd ask questions, and she refused to answer. Then, he made remarks and comments, and she began to ignore him altogether. When he grew tired of essentially talking to himself -the speech so strange and awkward and too-loud in the otherwise quiet room- he cut back on talking until all that was left were sounds. And even then, only some sounds held real meaning: the base carnal noises that were more breathy and throaty.  
  
Back when he'd still been more like himself and less like a thing, he could be found talking to himself as he was tied down, spending hours upon hours alone... with no one but himself for company. He tried to sing some of his favorite songs, but he mixed up lyrics after a while. He mixed up some and forgot others entirely. He thought of something funny and, when he laughed, the sound echoed cold and hollow in his concrete home. It was startling, and the sound was harsh on his ears. The sound that had meant something funny, happy, giddy, tapered off into something sad and lonely. Bitter. Stupid. Pointless. He laughed a lot less after that, and it had been a conscious decision. After a while, all those sounds that were once words, they began to lose meaning, and he only retained the ones that were deemed important.  
  
Food.  
  
Bath.  
  
Drink.  
  
Walk.

Chair.

Good boy. Sweet boy.

Bad.

No.

Sit.

Mommy loves you.  
  
For most things, he judged by tone. It was easier than translating words and distinguishing their meaning. Excited tones were always good and made him excited and downright happy. Because, if his handler was happy, odds were that something good was coming.  
  
His handler, surprisingly, was happy a lot when she was around him. There was very little aggression and distaste once Dean had learned to behave.  
  
He could be happy like that. Even if he went hungry and found himself cold. If he behaved and she praised and took care of him, he could die content. He could die feeling like he mattered. There was no emotional baggage or obligations with his mommy, no. She just loved him if he was a good boy for her.  
  
It's a sound theory, really, that anyone can be taught if properly motivated.  
  
Taught, trained, conditioned, warped and twisted until its former self is hardly recognizable.

In the same way that children became adults, Dean became a demon's pet.  
  
A phrase echoes in his mind like a distant half-remembered dream: "I carved you into a new animal," but Dean can't associate the voice with a particular face or event, so he ignores it.  
  
He forgets it.  
  
It doesn't matter.  
  
If something is round and treated like a ball, played with like a ball, then it is a ball. Fruit- that can be a ball. Dean has fetched fruit before when his handler had told him "get the ball."  
  
In the same sense, treat someone like they're inhuman, keep it up long enough, and eventually, it's true. If the delusion is enforced long enough, it seems factual, inarguable. Deny humanity long enough, and a person stops being a person.  
  
Dean scarcely recalls his own name. He's heard it. His handler has used it a few times. But it's just words. He doesn't really understand them because the words seem trivial and inconsequential.  
  
His name isn't a fun word like 'treat' or 'toy.'  
  
His name isn't a praise like 'my sweet boy,' or 'good boy.'  
  
His name is just something that pops up now and then. Like rock or leaf or rope or scalpel. The word _Dean_ is among those objects, and it hardly matters anymore.  
  
Except, now he's hearing that word a lot. Almost every time either of these two male hunters address him, they're calling him Dean, like it's important for him to remember.  
  
But he doesn't want to remember. Remembering makes him sick, and he misses the cold desolation of his little icebox.  
  
These people are hazardous. He's not sure how, but he knows. They carry themselves like they're on a mission, and their voices fluctuate like they're always angry or sad or pushing for something beyond their reach.  
  
He could get on board with the ride in the truck. He liked it. If he could, he'd have that one ride last forever. Feeling the engine rumble brought him a sense of happiness he'd nearly forgotten, and he wished he could have shared that with his handler.  
  
Then, the strange motel room and the choking-on-food incident. Then the older man went to bed and the younger one gave Dean a toy and walked out.  
  
The toy was nice and soft and fit well between his teeth. He settled down to play with it but caught himself curling his fingers around it. In an instant, he paused, eyes wide and fixated on his hands and the way his slightly crooked index fingers and thumbs hooked around the bone-shaped toy. His hands were healed, but he looked at them and recalled the searing pain as a knife was dragged along the back of his hands, splitting skin and pulling it away from the tissue and tendons beneath.  
  
It's then that he gets a strong whiff of sulfur, and he worries that his mommy will be upset with him for breaking the rules. He ditches the toy and scrambles to hide under the bed the man is still napping on. In his haste, he thumps his head against the bed frame in his attempt to scurry and duck for cover.  
  
John is awake instantly and dragging Dean back out from under the bed. It's almost an exact repeat from before, with the man gripping Dean's ankle and pulling too hard.  
  
Dean's not ready to be punished. He's such a good boy, and this man is surely going to punish him because he doesn't know how good Dean is.  
  
The scent of sulfur is stronger than it was, thick and oddly comforting in a nauseating sort of way, and he kicks out of the man's hold and makes a run at the door. But it's shut and he feels helpless as he looks at the handle.  
  
He stares... at the handle.

Handles open doors.  
  
He knows this. He can do this.  
  
He places his hand over the knob but can't bring himself to curl his fingers and grab it. He doesn't want his hands to hurt again. Or worse.  
  
He thinks of bolt cutters and how close they came to snipping off his appendages. And, all of a sudden, he's miserable and sad and terrified all at once because he's stuck with two practical strangers and has no idea what to expect from them.  
  
John had gotten next to no sleep. Tired and frustrated and at his wit's end, he closes the gap between himself and his son. For a moment, he questions Sam's absence, but then he focuses on Dean. During his rest, he'd had enough time to run through scenarios, and an unfortunate question won't quite leave him alone.  
  
What if this thing isn't really his son?  
  
He pulls a silver knife from his waist band and inches closer.  
  
It could be some fucked up skinwalker or shapeshifter. Could be Dean with some kind of enchantment.  
  
Just before John reaches Dean, his son turns and spies the knife, and instant panic flares.  
  
Dean attacks with a startling ferocity, and his hands close into proper fists and swing like it's the most natural thing in the world. He gets a hit in on John before grabbing and slamming the older man onto the floor.  
  
John is momentarily stunned but recovers quickly. As Dean moves in to strike again, John backhands him hard and jabs an elbow into his boy's ribs. The ribs aren't broken, but the jab still hurts and causes him to stumble back with the intent to protect himself. And of course John is up and grappling Dean and forcing him to the chair. It's a power struggle and he's winning, but something ugly roots itself in his chest as he forces his eldest son to submit.  
  
Sam comes in at the peak of the struggle.  
  
Sam comes in, and John is absolutely livid, especially when he finds out that Sam had left Dean alone so he could make a damned phone call.  
  
Things settle down after a while, but all the negative feelings are still there.  
  
And Sam plans to take Dean to Bobby fuckin' Singer.  
  
...  
  
They end up staying in the motel for another two nights. Neither John nor Sam managed to get Dean to eat. They try to make him drink, but it ends in a watery mess because Dean doesn't grip any cup or bottle. The only success they manage is with a plastic bowl that Dean takes to lapping at with his tongue, pulling away with his mouth and chin soaked and dripping.  
  
John's gone through a case of beer and a couple shots of something stronger, and he's gotten moody and broody, scribbling in his journal and hunching his shoulders like it's a big secret.  
  
Sam has made a number of calls to Jess and Brady, and there's a bit of jealousy starting to form when he hears them laughing about some inside joke he knows nothing about.  
  
It all loops back around to Dean though.  
  
Dean, who needs to be taken to the bathroom regularly or he simply doesn't make the trip and does his business wherever he currently is. Dean, who has taken to chewing on one of the wooden posts of a bed frame. Dean, who remains collared and occasionally blindfolded because it's the easiest means of calming him down. Dean, who visibly stiffens and looks around as if he's expecting something or someone to show up.  
  
The sulfur stench comes and goes, and when it's gone it lingers before fully dissipating.  
  
Neither John nor Sam have seen any actual trace of a demon, so they talk it over and decide maybe it's passing through in smoke form. They don't mention that it keeps coming back, or the fact that Dean seems inexplicably drawn to it.  
  
They pack up and Sam comes to a startling realization. He realizes that Dean is essentially _still_ wearing the old Hawaiian shirt and dingy sweats. Those clothes are John's. Sam has been in and out of that truck a few times by now, and nothing in it is Dean's. Yet, before the fiasco of Dean's abduction, John had been hunting with Dean, so it would make sense for Dean's clothes and belongings to be carted around with John's. But, there is nothing. Not so much as a sock or spare pair of boots.

It begs the question of where Dean's things are, if John had thrown them out... as if he'd simply given up on the idea of retrieving Dean or didn't care enough to hold onto the extra belongings.

It's unfair and unsettling to think that Dean very well might not have anything to call his own.

Sam pushes the thought aside. He can argue with John about it later.

He latches the newly bought leash to Dean's old metal collar. As if Dean really is some pet and Sam is just about to take him out.  
  
John doesn't mention the obvious, but he does give Sam a look of disapproval.  
  
Sam reasons that it's convenient... and, blindfold off, Dean looks positively excited when the leash is clipped on. The excitement only grows when he realizes that the two men are helping him into the truck. He wants to go. He likes the truck. He wants to go, go, go. Once the three of them are inside, he sniffs and smiles when he can still faintly smell his own urine. The smell is barely there, but he knows the smell. He picks up on it with a little pride, and he smiles wide and shimmies in his seat because he doesn't know how else to show that he's thrilled.  
  
He'd marked the truck. Ergo, the truck is his. He's in his truck, and the engine's rumbling, and the window is down, and when the world seems to speed past them, he forgets that he's supposed to have some kind of feelings beyond enjoyment.

There's supposed to be something beyond the here and now.  
  
A large part of Dean wants the two men to put a word to this event. His handler would have done that, given a specific word to it, named it, and made sure Dean knew it to be a reward.  
  
He imagines her dark hair and red lips and ample bosom, and he imagines her seductive voice saying: 'Ride? Wanna go for a ride? C'mon, boy, let's go for a ride.'

He would add the word 'ride' to his vocabulary.  
  
But the men don't say it like that, and it's a little disappointing. They talk too fast, and they don't often repeat things so he can understand. His brain picks up physical queues, but verbal ones are harder for him to grasp.  
  
Even with all the stops for gas and bathroom breaks (with Sam helping Dean to the bathroom and trying to instruct him with as little invasion as possible), everything goes smoothly for a while. It's peaceful, even.  
  
John doesn't bother nay-saying anything about Sam taking Dean to Bobby's, but he does mention a hunt he's been scoping out.  
  
Sam scoffs but doesn't openly reply.  
  
Dean shoves his head out the window to watch a scurrying groundhog that narrowly avoids becoming roadkill.  
  
The trip isn't a bad one, but it is lengthy.  
  
The three of them reach their destination less than 48 hours before Sam's faux scheduled appointment. Upon arrival, Bobby is out front and leaning against the Impala.  
  
The Impala, she's fixed up, dent-free and freshly waxed, and there's a good chance she runs like she's almost new.  
  
It's a brilliant thing, seeing her all polished and shined, restored to her former glory.  
  
The three Winchesters hop out of the truck at their own paces, and John's mouth hangs open wide before forming a grin that is all soft eyes and white teeth. Because the car is a classic beauty, and seeing her again is breathtaking.  
  
Sam smiles too, the mere sight taking him back in time like a fuckin' DeLorean, and all the Winchesters get to be Marty McFly. All of a sudden, Sam's a little kid in the back seat, and Dean is slipping on a cheap pair of headphones attached to a walkman he'd found abandoned in the park, and John is driving them to some unknown location that hardly matters because the boys will watch out for each other well enough.  
  
Dean sees the car.  
  
Both John and Sam glance over to watch Dean's reaction because this is something big.  
  
Dean stares at the car, unblinking, eyes wide and lips parted, breathless. There's pressure behind his eyes and moisture seeps out, a lone tear trekking down his cheek. The Impala is beautiful and shiny and calling out to him in ways that words cannot reach him. The way the sun reflects off her body warms him like nothing else can. She looks like freedom and home and everything good in the world. He can't smell her from a distance, but from where he's standing, he imagines she smells like fast food and spilled soda and leather upholstery and gunpowder and-  
  
Dean takes a few steps closer, arms outstretched and hands reaching towards Baby like a child just learning to walk and looking for something to grab onto. He completely ignores Bobby's presence and places his hands on her hood, peering down at his reflection through the waxed exterior. He sees himself, and it's strange because he's not sure what he's supposed to look like. He's not sure if it's right. But the metal beneath his palms is warm and making his hands sweaty, and he lets out a meek little whimper because he needs the car and doesn't understand why. Part of him is wrapped around it, and he's afraid to let go.  
  
Bobby clears his throat then and offers a smile. "Buncha idjits. Took ya long enough to get here." His words are patronizing, but he means well. He wants to greet them right proper and ask for full details. Last he's heard, a bad hunt ended in Dean's disappearance and Sam was in some fancy college trying to live the normal life.  
  
Sam's not shy when he goes over to hug Bobby. "It's good to see you," he tells the old hunter, and he means it.  
  
John grunts and offers a wave in manner of greeting, and Bobby returns the gesture with an uncertain nod.  
  
It's good,  Bobby thinks, to hug Sam again. Just as good, if not better, to see Dean, though the elder brother's behavior is something of a concern.  
  
"Why don't we get inside, and you can fill me in," Bobby suggests, but it's not a question.  
  
John goes right ahead and Sam waits back to decide if he's going to have to pry Dean away from the Impala.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd.  
> Rating has gone up.


	8. Chapter 8

Hanging long and loose like the body of a beheaded snake, the nylon leash remained clasped to the D-ring of Dean's barbed collar as he all but clung onto the exterior of the Impala. The sun beat down, squelching hot, but he paid no mind to it. The car was important and he had no desire to leave it. Just being near it gave him relief from a pain he'd been previously unaware of. Simply placing a hand on her hood was like feeding comfort food to his starving soul.

With Bobby and John no doubt cracking open a couple beers as a prelude to what would surely be a stressful relay of chronological events and plans of recovery, Sam remained outside to keep an eye on his brother. He had a sense of duty, and he watched intently, observing.

Dean's cheeks were moist with drying tear-tracks, liquid emotion having spilled shamelessly over the freshly buffed surface. The sight should have been some clever mix of sad and beautiful, but ultimately it was just Dean clinging onto something that had been a constant in his life in ways that nothing else ever had.

It was simply Dean. Dean, Dean, Dean, alive and seemingly healthy. And, knowing that, it was almost possible to ignore the barking, the whimpering, the snarls, and strange aversion to using his fingers to pick up objects like a normal human being.

The old Dean and this new version both liked the Impala and relied on it for comfort; they both liked bad food and old music; and both had their own ways of both charming and irritating his younger sibling at the same time.

Sam cleared his throat in an effort to get his big brother's attention. "Dean?" He cautioned the name before repeating it. "Dean, are you ready to go inside?" He could allow Dean to stay outside; the older of the two young men would likely remain by the car, but there were too many risks. Bobby's home was safer, with salt and devil traps and wards and sigils, an arsenal and a library's worth of lore to research. Dean would be better off inside, with their biological and surrogate parentals.

If Dean heard his younger brother's question, he offered no indication. He simply stroked a hand along the smooth finish of Baby, caressing her like a lost lover. The gesture seemed an odd blend of naive and intimate, and the combination was so strangely Dean that Sam was forced to acknowledge his brother more thoroughly than he had been.

Because, what seemed like forever ago, he'd walked out on- not just an overbearing father and a dangerous and abnormal lifestyle, but also a brother. He'd walked away from Dean without considering the consequences. But, in no imagined scenario was it possible to dream up that their reunion would be so bizarre. In Sam's mind, he'd run to college and grab a slice of normal, and Dean and John could do their monster-killing. Everyone would get what they wanted, and there would be some version of Happily Ever After along the lines. But, of course, it would seem that the ol' Winchester luck struck a match to light the fuse of 'improbable but apparently not impossible,' and a few mishaps later coupled with a degree of time saw the middle Winchester (midchester?) ensnared by a demon. And, of course Sam would be drawn in then, to find and step onto what would undoubtedly be a long path of healing and hardship.

It was unfair, in so many ways.

Sam missed Jess. He'd missed a big test. Brady was potentially trashing his living quarters and making moves on his girl. His father was yo-yoing between being reasonable and being an asshole. And Dean...

Dean was a wreck, with his mind locked away and his mannerisms resembling that of a trained pet with aggressive triggers. But, in many ways, he was still very much the same Dean Sam knew and loved.

Sometimes, just looking at his brother, Sam half expected a bellowing laugh and the revelation that this had all be a painstaking and elaborate ruse to get Sam's attention.

Sam wished it was.

But then, there were so many facts that stated and proved the contrary.

The demon, for starters.

And Dean, of course.

Dean, with his antifreeze green eyes and his teeth that ripped through raw rabbit hide. Dean, with his fondness for the blindfold and the collar that almost seemed to be a part of him. Dean, with his lack of vocabulary and high level of codependency... It was a lot to take in.

And Sam couldn't help thinking that he should have been around to help. He should have been on that hunt for the poltergeist. He should have had Dean's back when that shapeshifter in the form of a witch had come to call. And he should have been there to help Dean when the demon bitch had essentially kidnapped and trained the humanity out of him.

Sam should have been there.

But John could be blamed too.

But Sam-

-John had a tendency to be single-minded and selfish and ignorant.

Sam knew this.

Dean knew it too.

Sam could push a large heaping helping of blame onto his father, but he couldn't rightly blame his brother for the fate that befell him.

Dean didn't ask for his life to revolve around Pavlovian responses and general animalistic behavior.

If John was expected to be an ass and potentially screw things up because his mind was focused on a self-assigned 'greater good,' then Sam could only fault his own absence.

His own greed. He'd yearned for that new normal life, but obtaining it meant cutting connections with the hunter lifestyle and his hunting companions. And that had included his brother. Intentional or not, that's what happened.

Guilt formed, and it felt big and heavy like a rock jammed in the younger Winchester's intestines. He took a breath and forced mock-digestion, opting to push the feeling aside and focus solely on his brother. His big brother Dean who was so head over heels for a car that he'd named her Baby.

A thought occurred, spur of the moment, and Sam acted on it. He closed the distance between himself and the Impala and pulled open the door. "Do you wanna sit inside, Dean?" It sounded strange to his own ears, to ask such a question, and yet it felt good.

Very good.

It felt right.

Because, the moment Dean heard the door open and looked to see Sam gesturing to the interior, his face lit up like that time in the field on the 4th of July. His smile was bright and beaming and his eyes were wide and shining, and he moved to push past Sam and climb into the car without further prompt.

Sam couldn't help the lopsided grin that slipped into place. It was good to see his brother happy, and he was glad to be responsible for it.

"You can sit in there for a few, but then we head inside. Is it a deal, Dean?" The words came without thought. Habitual etiquette. And yet, the question was rhetorical, and there was no expectation for a response.

Sam stood back and watched as Dean got comfortable in the Impala and looked around with awe.

To the elder of the two brothers, the outside of the car was beautiful but the inside was even better. There was a cheap pine-scented air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror, and the leather upholstery was clean and inviting: a perfect blend of firm and plush. The windows were clear; the radio was- and Dean had the desire to-

-he placed a hand on the wheel, his palm pressing light and his fingers reflexively folding, and before he knew it, he was abandoning the hard-learned rule about the use of his flexible phalanges, and he was gripping the wheel proper with one hand while the other reached for the ignition.

His feet rested in their respective places, one applying the faintest pressure to a pedal.

It felt so natural. Instinctual. Easier than breathing. There was zero thought behind his actions, and something deep within told him he could go for miles if he just applied himself a little more.

Something like a memory began to surface, but it was fuzzy and his head throbbed like someone had just dropped a bowling ball inside it. It hurt. The pain was almost blinding and his eyes lost focus. He could still see, but his surroundings ceased to make sense. Sight lost meaning and nothing truly registered. He simply knew that he was sitting somewhere familiar, and his head hurt, and he was terribly homesick.

His mind warred with the idea of home.

Because, home should be warm, and there should be a lump by his side that was short and scrawny and perfectly Sam-shaped.

But home was also cold and desolate and concrete, with a strap-strewn chair bolted to to the floor and a taunting bowl of tainted blood setting on a nearby table.

Home was warm, tasted like cheap food, and sounded like old music.

Home was cold, tasted like raw and bloody meat or rotting carcass, and sounded like water dripping from pipes, footsteps overhead, and his handler's voice whispering sweet things to him.

Home was warm.

Home was cold.

Home.

Car.

Chair.

Sammy.

Mommy.

Home was muddled and painful, and the pressure in Dean's head grew until he became fevered, his cheeks flushed, and his nose began to bleed from stress.

He was dizzy. Nauseous. Bile bubbled up his esophagus, but he choked it back down.

He couldn't see straight, and what he could see made little to no sense. His eyes darted back and forth and he wished for the sense of calm that could be provided by his blindfold.

Blood leaked from his nose, down his top lip and into his mouth, and it tasted coppery.

It tasted like pennies, like when he'd tried to entertain little Sammy in the back seat of the car with a handful of loose change, and a poorly performed magic trick ended in him swallowing forty-seven cents.

It tasted like iron, when he'd been on a walk with his handler and found a rusty old chain tied around a tree. He'd bitten and tugged at it til his gums bled, but he liked the sound it made when the links rattled together, and his mommy told him how much she liked watching him play.

It was all too confusing. Between the present and the warring memories, Dean could scarcely make sense of where he was. He wanted comfort and familiarity. He'd give anything to sit in his chair and feel the security of those straps.

Something to ground him and make him feel safe.

A sensation that didn't need words.

Dean's finger and thumb found the key in the ignition and his thumb pressured...

Sam had casually slipped a hand into his pocket with the intent to call Jess and inform her that they'd arrived safely and himself (and Dean) would hopefully be back in California within a week. He abandoned his quested phone-retrieval and was startled into action when he realized that his unstable and potentially impaired older brother was about to start the car. He bolted into action, needing to stop whatever pending progression was in the midst. His hand darted out and closed around the dangling length of the leash, and he pulled hard enough to jerk Dean half out of the car.

Dean fell sideways along the seat, head hanging off and body going rigid. His eyes rolled to look up at Sam. He released a soft, strangled sound that conveyed his confusion and fear.

Desperation.

Anxiety.

A staggering lack of awareness.

Eyes full of concern and sympathy, Sam maintained a firm grip on the leash with one hand and reached over to pet Dean's head with the other. His motions were calculated and purposeful. For a moment, he wasn't talking to his brother; he was calming a cornered animal. "You're okay," he soothed. "You're okay." He continued to pet, fingers carding through hair that was weeks beyond needing cut. "I just want you to be safe... Dean." Sam added the name. Partly for his brother and partly for himself, as a reminder. He took a calming breath and continued petting in slow, even strokes. When Dean began to visibly relax, Sam found himself muttering: "See? It's okay. You're a good boy. Very good-" He couldn't finish. He mentally kicked himself and tried to reinstate the fact that this was his human brother, and Dean deserved to retain as much dignity as possible. He retracted his petting hand and gave the leash a tug, and Dean reluctantly exited the Impala, too shaken up to protest. "Let's get inside, Dean."

Sam shut the car door and led the way; Dean followed the leash with an impressive level of obedience.

Entering Bobby's humble abode that doubled as his own personal hunter's lodge brought into view the sight of one pissed off Mr Singer pouring through an old book with a spine that was held together with tape and the eldest Winchester knocking back a bottle of beer while leaning against a wall and sporting a fresh welt that would darken into a shiner.

Sam didn't question it, and Dean just scrunched up his nose like he was trying to identify a specific smell.

Upon seeing the boys come in, Bobby got up and retrieved a battered old flask. He extended an arm and held it out to Sam.

Sam knew the drill. He took it without question, flicked the cap off and took a drink. Then he turned to his brother and pressed the rim to Dean's lips and tilted. Holy water poured and Dean took a swallow before turning his head and making a face in distaste. Not at the water, or the fact that it had been blessed; he just preferred lapping his beverages from a bowl.

The rest of the water was unceremoniously dumped over Dean's head for good measure.

"We're human, Bobby," Sam placated. "But we have a situation, with Dean."

The eldest of the group nodded, his face drawn and expression grave. He glanced towards an opened book he'd been reading through. "I've heard." His gaze flicked towards John and his eyes hardened before his focus switched to regard Dean, giving him a once-over. His attention went back to Sam. "As I was telling your dad, I might have an idea there..."

Sam's posture straightened and he stepped closer to the older hunter to show his interest, incidentally tugging the leash and causing Dean to step closer as well.

Bobby took note of the leash and his face twisted in anger, jaw clenched and eyes full of disapproval. "You unclip that lead right now," he demanded, gruff tone speaking volumes.

With a nod, Sam turned to do as directed. "Right," he said under his breath, removing the leash from the collar.

"The collar too," Bobby added sternly, eyes narrowing. He crossed his arms to show that he meant business.

Sam reached for the collar but hesitated, hands hovering inches away from Dean's throat.

"Get the damn collar off your brother," Bobby's voice boomed that time.

"It needs to stay," Sam explained. "Dean... is hard to control without it."

 _Control_ had been the wrong word to use.

If looks could kill, Sam would be dead and Bobby would be declared his murderer.

"Dean flips out," John stepped in to assist his youngest son. "He freaks out, dodges and lunges like something feral, throws wild punches, and he bites. The easiest way to calm him down is to use the collar." He took a hefty swig of his beer, emptying the contents before setting the bottle down.

"I don't give a rat's ass what your reasoning is. That boy deserves a sense of self respect. Keeping that thing on him can't be good for his psyche, and no good can come from treating him like some domesticated animal."

"Feral," John corrected, and he had the gall to look abashed despite keeping his head high and looking directly at Bobby, refusing to be talked down to like a child who spilled juice on the carpet.

Sam, on the other hand, couldn't bring himself to meet Bobby's gaze. His hazel eyes were trained on Dean and he felt his previous sense of guilt returning with a vengeance.

Because, this was Sam's big brother, and Dean didn't deserve the horrors fate wrought upon him.

When none of the Winchesters made a move to free Dean from his collared state, Bobby stepped up to the plate. He schooled his expression into something more neutral as he approached Dean. He inspected the collar, noting the unforgiving spikes and barbs that were crusted with dry blood and lined up with raw tissue wrapped in puckered pink flesh that hadn't the opportunity to heal and scar. Large, experienced hands- old and kind- gingerly sought the metal ring and freed the S hook from its rig. The collar came off easily enough and was dropped onto the small book-covered table.

Dean's shoulders tensed and his teeth bared when the collar was removed.

Bobby stood toe to toe and face to face with Dean, their eyes meeting and a conversation passing between them without the need for words. The old hunter's eyes misted and his arms came up to envelop Dean, and the embrace was as powerful as it was warm and familiar.

A different kind of home.

Dean released a sound that was so small and so quiet that it might have been imagined, but he leaned into the embrace and rested his chin on the old man's shoulder.

"We'll get you all fixed up, boy" Bobby said reassuringly, but the meaning was lost on the younger man. All Dean managed to pick up from the comforting sentence was the word 'boy,' and in his mind, he linked it to the name his demon handler had called him time and time again.

He liked the name. Short, simple, and easy. Good boy. Sweet boy. That's what he was, and it was such a nice concept that Dean found himself smiling and feeling like he'd be cared for. And that was a pleasant thought. His stomach felt so empty, and he never seemed to have enough water, and his surroundings as of late just kept changing. Most importantly, he wanted to sit in a chair and wait for a treat because he'd been such a well-behaved boy. He thought back to that rabbit he'd had- the one his handler had given him, and he recalled the way his teeth tore into it and the blood drenched his mouth.

Lost in thought and caught up in the memory, Dean was happy.

Too happy.

And hungry.

The combination of happy and hungry along with the bodily contact of the embrace brought about a base sense of lust.

Pulling a face, Bobby dropped his arms and stepped away from the younger man. He cleared his throat. "Ah, the boy might need a shower."

"He's clean," Sam insisted, thinking about the last time he'd helped clean his brother up.

"A cold shower," Bobby deadpanned, allowing the implications to sink in.

Clearly discomforted, John cleared his throat and picked up the book Bobby had been looking through earlier. A quick skim and something caught his attention. "So, Bobby," he began, eyes roaming the page, "Bloodhounds?"

And Bobby confirmed, "bloodhounds."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd.


	9. Chapter 9

At first, it's a hot topic. They mill about their duties, researching between tasks and sharing their findings. Bloodhounds, of the supernatural variety. The lore available is slim and sketchy; picking fact from fable is guesswork at best. They talk about it, about Dean, like they're discussing some kind of project. Each play their part like they'd been given roles and rehearsed their lines to the letter. Day in and day out, it's seamless how they fit around one another's schedule and manage their lives around Dean.

As if Dean has become their own personal sun, and their revolution around him is somehow crucial to survival. To existence. As if leaving him to fend for himself will leave the rest of them un-tethered without a gravitational pull.

They research the subject of bloodhounds, but they mostly run across information regarding the traditional canine breed. They try for supernatural canines and find themselves neck-deep in old or false information regarding werewolves, skinwalkers, and hellhounds.

So, they try a new route.

They delve into reading about witchcraft. Because it isn't unheard of for witches to take on 'familiars'. Companions, usually in typical animal forms. So, it's not too far fetched to surmise that, maybe, just maybe, demons might do something similar.

Their river of ideas and leads runs dry all too soon, and while they continue to do private (and unproductive) research, they stop talking about it.

Just because they have a label to slap on Dean, doesn't mean they'll automatically be granted a cure. If anything, holding onto a potentially false label is stunting their prowess by limiting the options in their scope.

For the most part, they drop the 'bloodhound' talk.

Regarding Dean, they use words like:

_Condition._

_Ordeal._

_Situation._

They use words that imply a temporary stage that can be overcome. They treat a mountain like a mole hill because any other manner would pull them under and prohibit them from resurfacing anytime soon.

Meanwhile, time passes, days and weeks, and they do their best to work with Dean despite it being a bumpy road laden with soul-scorching trials.

The phrase _'too many cooks in the kitchen'_ comes to mind in general regards to the Winchesters' stay at Bobby's. While everyone had good intentions, their ideas on how to handle the _situation_ clashed with one another.

Bobby, of course, had decided to ignore the new quirks and faults and simply treat Dean like nothing had changed. He insisted that treating Dean like a human would instill human values once more. But, taking Dean out to look at a few busted vehicles and asking for assistance in fixing and maintaining them did nothing to spark recognition or understanding in those wide green eyes. Instead of popping the hood or fetching a wrench, Dean had taken interest in knocking Bobby's hat off a few times and then alternating between investigating scraps and finding places to sit down for stretches of time.

When the Salvage Yard failed to provide the right level of stimuli, Bobby called and made an arrangement with a friend who owned a nearby diner. He'd helped this friend with a vengeful spirit once, and the owner had left an open ended: 'I owe you one.' Thus, Bobby called in his 'one,' asking her to open shop an hour early so he could treat Dean to a breakfast at a public place without the stress of the public scrutiny.

Loading Dean up in a lemon car and taking him on a drive was the easy part. Getting him out and into the diner was also easy. The hard part came when the older man instructed his pseudo-son to take a seat, and the diner's owner- a young miss with a nametag that said Liz- ambled over with a bit too much enthusiasm in her quest to place down a couple menus.

The confusion Dean felt was evident as he released a series of breathy inverted gasps that were meant to pass as some form of communication.

He didn't know this woman. He didn't like this woman. She played no part in his day-to-day activities.

Dean kept up his inverted gasping until his throat became irritated and he hacked, spittle spraying across the shiny lamination of the menu.

Liz was startled and appalled by the strange behavior, her eyebrows raising to meet her over-teased bangs. "Is he okay?" she asked the aging hunter. Knowing a little about the older man's line of work, she shouldn't be surprised, and she probably had no right to pry. She couldn't help the question though, and she bit her lip, awaiting his answer.

Bobby offered a half-shrug and a small smile. "The boy's had a tough time. I figured it would do him some good to get out of the house for a bit... but he's not ready for large crowds." The confession felt strange on the man's tongue. His insides roiled and he hated how it felt like betrayal to admit Dean's lack of normalcy. Had things been different, the young Winchester would be flirting with Liz and slipping her a phone number. The contrast between current reality and preconceived expectations were unfortunate, but Bobby pushed his concerns aside and opted to maintain a pleasant expression and good vibes. He was doing this for Dean, after all. "Coffee for me," he began to place the order, "and water for the boy-" he hesitated before adding "-in a bowl, please."

Liz looked like she wanted to ask. Too many questions begged to be spoken, but she tried to push her curiosity aside. She raised her pen and clipboard and opened her mouth, but just as quick, she reversed her motions, shutting her trap and jotting down the order, making sure to specify that the water should be in a bowl rather than a cup.

Bobby thanked her as she turned to get their drinks. "Pancakes?" he asked the younger man, not bothering to look at the menu but reaching over to open the one set before Dean. "Bacon and eggs are good too."

Dean's attention fell to the menu and he stared hard, like he was really concentrating. The words were hard, appearing almost foreign in their neat black font. He couldn't make heads or tails of them, but he caught a glimpse of a child's menu that had been carelessly stashed inside. On the small paper menu were pictures next to the listed foods. He found himself staring at a picture of knockoff McMuffin and was reminded of the burgers John and Sam had coaxed him into eating.

He understood that Bobby expected him to pick something to eat.

Part of him even understood where he was.

But his feet were bare and cold, and there was some kind of nagging sensation in the back of his mind telling him that he should have shoes on.

He ignored the nagging and boldly reached a hand over the table to tap the old hunter on the arm. To get his attention.

Bobby found himself smiling at the simple action. Because Dean had made a decision to do that on his own, and it was a clear sign of freewill and sensible thought coming together to complete said action. "See something you want, Dean?" Bobby was nothing if not encouraging, and his smile stretched just a little wider, his eyes crinkling at the sides. He was proud of Dean and thankful for small victories when allotted.

Having gotten the older man's attention, Dean wordlessly snapped his jaw a few times before landing a smack on top of the child's menu to show that he'd found something.

Bobby took a look and nodded in approval.

That small gesture had Dean's face lighting up like he'd won the lottery.

Bobby called Liz back. She delivered their drinks and took their food orders before leaving once again.

"I know it's only breakfast," the old man says conversationally, "but if you keep doing so well, we can eventually come for dessert, and they have some damn good pie here." Bobby half expects Dean to get worked up over the idea of pie.

Dean doesn't. He swivels his head around his neck and looks around at the sparse decor, then stops to sniff the air.

Bobby wonders if Dean is smelling the food. It makes sense. But he takes a big whiff himself and his insides freeze up.

Because he smells something familiar. Like eggs- rotten eggs- which means sulfur.

He hopes it's actual eggs, but it seems so unlikely, and Bobby is instantly on edge and beginning to regret his decision to take Dean out.

But, nothing happens. The odor fades.

Their food comes.

Bobby sips his coffee and takes a few bites of his own food, but his attention is mainly focused on the boy he considers a son.

Dean's cautious at first, unsure how to go about eating the food. His hands hover like he wants to pick his food up, but he doesn't. He glances at cheap silverware like he knows it's supposed to be used for eating, but he doesn't touch it. He leans in and laps his tongue into his bowl of water. Afterwards, he just looks deeply concerned with how to eat.

His stomach clenches. This isn't like any treat his handler had given him. And he's not directly comfortable with feeding himself. Memories surface, and in them, his mommy is pressing food into his mouth, and he's tasting his meals around her delicate fingers.

He glances at Bobby, pensive, and watches the man heft a forkfull of food into his mouth.

Dean wants to eat too. Not because he's hungry- and he _is_ hungry- but because he's expected to. This nice man wants him to eat. Not eating, it feels like he's breaking a new rule. He doesn't want to break rules. He's not sure how this man would punish him. So, he watches and considers, the gears in his head turning.

He watches Bobby pull up another load on his fork.

And Dean lurches forward, hands planted on the table, leaning in bodily over his own food and snapping his teeth towards Bobby's fork.

Bobby is startled at first but makes no move to stop Dean. He sort of gets it. With a small, resigned sigh, Bobby gets up, pushes the plate closer to Dean and moves to sit beside the young man rather than across. Then, with a surprising amount of patience, he eases Dean back into his seat and proceeds to feed the boy one bite at a time.

It's strange and uncomfortable, but Dean closes his eyes and chews the food, and he looks so serene that even Liz takes a moment to appreciate the view and offer a forgiving smile.

By the end of the meal, Bobby's calling it a successful breakfast.

After that, they don't go out for breakfast every morning, but they go enough that Dean is excited when they do and disappointed when they don't.

Bobby takes small steps to try and get Dean to feed himself, but there's no notable success there.

Liz has come to expect them to show up, and she's even gone as far as to sit with them while they eat. At first, the whole thing seems strange and creepy, but she'd warmed up to Dean and began to see him as adorable.

Dean's gotten used to Liz too, which is clearly indicated when Bobby pulls in and opens the door, and Dean runs ahead to greet the young woman.

It's strange, how things grew into a routine. Nothing about it is right, but none of them bother pointing out how it's wrong. It's just breakfast, and they all have good intentions.

Bobby doesn't mean it to come across as flirting when he realizes and compliments the fact that Liz had done something different with her hair. And Liz doesn't mean to call him a sweet old man, nor does she mean to reach over and ruffle Dean's hair.

From an outsider's point of view, maybe they look like a strange, loving family. The man is too old, the woman is too young, and the would-be child is an adult with the attention span of a house pet.

Ten kinds of wrong, but it all started with genuine intent.

Bobby keeps it up, telling himself it's good for Dean. And, really, it is. And that fact is enforced when Dean ignores his own bowl of water and reaches over with both hands and carefully picks up Bobby's coffee cup. He pulls it close and takes a drink, and the simple act alone is so awe-inspiring that Liz wishes there was a Lifetime movie dedicated to it.

But this time and most of these moments shared between the three of them, it stays where it is. At the diner. Because, as they all tell themselves, it's only breakfast. Afterwards, Bobby takes Dean home and bluntly informs both John and Sam: "Dean held a cup today."

Sam celebrates, patting Dean on the head and saying "Good job, buddy. Very good."

John knows he should be glad for the small success, but he's impatient and frustrated, and some part of him wonders if things would be better if he'd left Dean with the demon. Dean wasn't in any real danger there, and the longer he was laid up with babysitting his impaired son, the colder the trail of Mary's killer grew. He should be hunting, not pretending to be amazed that Dean held a damn cup.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd.  
> \--I figured I'd give Bobby, John, and Sam their own chapters to show how they attempt working with Dean.  
> This is Bobby's chapter.  
> Next is John's.  
> When we get to Sam's, we'll hear more on Jess and Brady.  
> Along the way, more information on Bloodhounds will be disclosed, and we'll have some plot progression.


	10. Chapter 10

 

Men like John Winchester do some of their best work under pressure. So, with Dean and the whole god awful scenario that's been set before them, he tries. No one- not even Bobby Singer- can say otherwise.

John isn't a morning person. Once upon a time, morning meant bacon and eggs, orange juice, sitting at a table while Mary pressed a kiss to his cheek and lingered like she wanted to tell him a secret, and then the smoke alarm would go off because the toaster's self-popping feature is broken and what was once bread would become a blackened, inedible char. It's then that little Dean would stumble into the kitchen, half tripping over his feet and rubbing sleep from his eyes. With Mary taking care of the ruined toast, John's focus would fall solely to his little boy; He'd scoop up Dean and place the kid on his lap and offer him a sip of juice.

It's a nice idea and memory.

But the memory of burning toast brings to light memories of other things that have burned.

Sammy's nursery. Their home. Mary...

The memory plays out. The heat and smoke, everything engulfed in a light as hellfire tore their lives and family apart.

John knows, for certain, that everything changed that night. _He_ changed. There should have been panic and urgency. He should have been so stricken that he'd gotten lost in the billowing wreckage and never made it out. Instead, military training kicked in and he was horrifically calm. He shoved his infant son into the arms of a 4 year old boy who loved matchbox cars and mac and cheese and singing the alphabet song a little too loud. From the moment that bundled up baby slipped into those rail-thin arms, the weight of the world fell onto the young one's shoulders, and John let it happen.

He urged his little 4 year old boy to be strong while he himself fell into a cycle of obsession and despair.

Gone were the cherished mornings and burnt toast and warm moments that centered around Mary.

Gone was a beacon of joy.

John was left to take care of the boys, but justice for Mary became his driving force.

He tried. He honestly did. In his mind, he rationalized that what he did and how he did it- it was largely in part for protecting what was left of his family. And he held onto that idea, forged himself a self-assigned higher purpose, and grew blind to what should have been so obvious.

He took care of his sons. But he stopped being their dad.

In hindsight, he supposes it makes sense that his boys viewed him so differently. Dean retained memories of being picked up and given juice, of sitting on the carpet and pushing cars across the floor, of watching tv on the couch while sitting between two loving parents. Dean had those memories, and he could look at the evolved hunter that was his father, and he could still remember having the old version of his dad. Sam never had that chance. Sam didn't know Dad John; he only knew Hunter John and Drill Instructor, Drunk or Sober John. Angry or Bitter John. And, though well hidden, Scared John.

Those differences would shape their relationship into some song and dance worthy of being scripted, cast, and put on television.

Life is funny like that, lending moments through secondhand lenses and retrospection.

Somewhere along the line, John is sure, there's some big cosmic punchline, and their lives are all part of an elaborate setup of a joke. Like, there's a big picture being puzzled together, and everyone is waiting for the end result.

But John puts those thoughts aside.

He has to.

Because, Dean needs him, and he wants to be a real dad again. And he really is trying.

It's in Bobby's too-small bathroom that Dean sits on the closed lid of the toilet while John guides Dean's hand to hold a toothbrush and press the bristles to bone-white teeth. There's patience in the way the father in John attempts to help his son.

In a way, it's like it was many years ago, back when Dean's smiles were more gums than teeth, and he needed help brushing properly, otherwise he'd just brush the front ones, spit in the sink, and run off with the water still running.

John has to smile at that, because Dean had been such a simple kid. Now, he supposed his boy isn't much different... except for the drooling.

Dean's fingers are slack around the handle of the toothbrush, John's hand wrapped around to secure the hold, and Dean's biting at the bristled end, spit and toothpaste dripping down his chin in foamy globs.

It's frustrating and ridiculous, and John struggles with admitting that his son is an invalid. But he's not ready to believe his eldest is a lost cause, not when those eyes sometimes sharpen and the boy looks like he's putting things together.

That said, if Dean's willing to try, then John sure as hell is going to try too. And he's been trying. He's pushing and pushing and trying to be patient, but no matter how much he pushes, there isn't enough push back. He should be trying to push a big ol' boulder up the side of a mountain, but he's got his hands up, and he's essentially pushing a giant ball of jello. There's not enough progress. He just keeps pushing and pushing and waiting and waiting, then pushing again, but all he's doing is wearing himself out and wading through messes.

Wearing his patience thin.

Growing agitated.

Thinking, too much.

Digging.

Itching. Needing to scratch that itch.

Before long, his nerves feel like they're trying to crawl out of his skin, and he knows he needs to go.

The itch intensifies and spreads until it takes over, manifesting in his words and actions.

He can't help it, can't take the strain and guilt and frustration. He works best under pressure, but there's little to none here.

He packs his bags and loads up the truck.

He doesn't say a word about what he's doing or why, and no one asks.

Sam doesn't comment when John starts stashing away the rest of his hunting gear and scribbles a few notes in his old Journal.

Bobby stares hard, like he's trying to burn a hole into John's head, but the old man makes no move to stall John.

And... Dean slaps a hand against the wall in an attempt to catch a fly that had caught his attention.

John snorts and barely contains a disapproving curl of his lip. Because, that can't be his boy. Not really. It's him physically, but someone or something else is commandeering his brain.

It's a tossup, depending on the day and schedule and Dean himself, whether or not Dean's behaviors are concerning.

One moment, he's sitting in a chair looking like a man awaiting execution; it's strange and foreboding how he just stares ahead, eyes wide open but not really looking. When he gets like that, it's hard to tell if he's actually seeing anything, or if he's caught up in his own head, fighting imaginary demons because the real ones aren't present. John, admittedly, wants to reemploy use of the blindfold to hide away the empty gaze, but he keeps that little half-hashed desire to himself.

Maybe, another moment, when he's not in a chair, Dean's bouncing on the balls of his feet, lofting from room to room, like a restless child. Restless, and too quiet. The lack of speech is concerning, and John's begun to think it's a lost cause, but Sam insists otherwise, so they've hit a point where they agree to disagree. When John talks, he doesn't often talk _to_ Dean, rather, he talks at him, or around him. What he says to the boy doesn't require a response despite the fact that he demands attention and understanding.

_"Look at me when I'm talking to you, Dean"_

_"Just sit there and- God dammit, Dean, sit still! You bite me again, I'll pop you one."_

Dean's draft of misbehavior was surprisingly slight, but it was hard for John to tolerate what Bobby and Sam had decided to overlook. Sam was glad to spend time with his brother, or whatever he considered himself to be doing, and Bobby had his little morning stints with taking Dean to the diner- and, oh, if that didn't piss John off.

Bobby-fuckin-Singer. The man gets the gall to take Dean out and feed him a few bites of food at a diner, then comes back acting like he'd single-handedly delivered a miracle... simply because Dean held a damn cup.

John would, however, give the old man credit for finding out about supernatural bloodhounds, however slight the lore was. It was a lead, ergo it was a workable angle for John to latch onto. He'd read up on it and find a way to counteract it. A least, he wanted to. It would be the right thing to do. But being stuck in one place- Bobby's place, at that- and in close quarters with Dean's new behaviors for a prolonged period of time, John was getting restless, nearly ready to call it quits. Not that he'd be quitting, per se, but his head and chest ached in a hollow but persistent way that made him want to run, as if leaving physically would pull him from the cold press of his failure as a parent.

And, why shouldn't he be agitated? He's at the end of his rope, caught in a figurative noose, choking away the remainder of his life, squandering precious time that could be spent elsewhere...

...and Dean ate one of his boots. Dean, his son, his boy, his own personal once-upon-a-soldier had literally chewed through a portion of the hardy leather of one of John's boots. As if he really was just some dumb animal with nothing better to do than destroy an owner's property. He'd punished Dean for that, for ruining his boot. Shoved the boy into a wall, called him names, damned him with every insult he could think of. Called him a filthy, stupid animal.

The word _worthless_ may have slipped a time or two during his anger-induced tirade.

And Dean just accepted it, eyes full of some form of resignation without any real understanding. Biting and chewing were nervous habits he'd picked up, and while Sam had gotten him a toy or two, John had disposed of them with the statement that his boy didn't need that shit. After that, Dean turned to biting his nails. He bit and chewed until his nails were half missing and his fingers bled.

Both Sam and Bobby had scolded him on separate occasions, for making his hands bleed. They'd told him 'no' and washed the blood away, and it seemed so unfair that they were denying him something that had helped to soothe his nerves.

No matter where he was or what he did, it seemed there was always someone telling him what he could and couldn't do. Whatever will he had, they all seemed to grab a small piece of it and tug it into a shape of their liking, until his predominant agenda became a misshapen balloon animal forged by every hand except his own.

Turning his teeth to John's footwear wasn't any sort of planned action. It just seemed to happen, almost on its own accord. He'd been laying on the floor, plagued with nightmares and unable to sleep.

In his dreams, there's cold. Like a freezer. An icebox with cement walls and floors, all lit with a single flickering bulb. And there's blood, tainted blood that smells rotten in a way that isn't entirely unwelcome. There's a chair and a couple sets of straps that come complete with shiny brass buckles, and if he can just get to that chair and allow himself to be tied down, somehow, he knows he'll be safe. He has an irrational belief that there is comfort in the hard chair and tight straps. Comfort and security. Simply being in that chair saps away regret and indecision and allows him to be complacent. But the chair is forever out of reach, and the longer he tries to get to it, reaching, crawling, or standing and running towards it, the more faded and fuzzy it seems to be. The walls warp into an elongated hallway, and it's cliche how he never gets any closer to his intended target.

He's losing it, and he feels the loss deep within his bones. He feels it in the grinding sensation when his teeth click together in frustration. He feels it in the way his blood burns like acid in his veins and his lungs work double overtime to compensate for the pulsing that is so strong he feels his heartbeat in all his extremities. There's a budding sense of panic that crashes over him like roaring waves, and something deep and primal within wars with a chance to roar back.

He's terrified. But more than that, he's bent around pragmatism: he needs to survive. There is no alternative.

In his dreams, the familiar chair is decidedly non-optional. He's so cold and his movements have grown sluggish, and he just wants an ounce of warmth to take away the tingly numbness his body feels, but then, all at once, that stagnant cold becomes a blasting heat. Fire. Burning. And he's entirely too short and running out of a burning building with something small and heavy in his arms. And he feels like he's dying, like nothing will ever be okay again. Suddenly, the old cold and tingly numbness doesn't seem so bad.

He yearns for the cold little icebox in a big way, and his mind echoes with the alluring voice of a woman calling for her sweet boy.

Dean wants to heed the call.

He looks and listens, but he so rarely feels the presence of his mommy.

When given enough time for introspection, he remembers her touch. Warm hands with long fingers that glide across his skin. He remembers her hair falling over his shoulders and chest while her body arches in a way that is as beautiful as it is sinful, and he can't help wanting to feel her pull at his hair and rock her hips against his.

It's damning, how he misses her. Wants her. Craves her in mind, body, and soul.

Sure, Dean can do well where he is. Part of being a survivor is being able to adapt. And he likes the routine that his life has become. But he feels incomplete living this way. There's too much space. Too many options.

They took away his blindfold and collar.

They allow the illusion of freedom, only to continue telling him right and wrong.

It's as baffling as it is conflicting.

Dean just doesn't want to have to think anymore. Thinking hurts and stresses him out. But, he feels a little better when the hunters set him on special tasks. It gives him something to focus on, and he likes that.

With the old one, Bobby, Dean gets to go places. And he's met a nice lady who pets his hair and says nice words. Bless that woman, she even repeats herself sometimes, and Dean picks up some of what she says. And he gets to eat. Dean's job then, when he goes to the diner, is to put up a front and act a certain way. He holds things. And while he hasn't done it officially, in his mind, he's working out the mechanics of eating with utensils again. Bobby sings his praise for it.

But, then there's John, and the man's a puzzle Dean struggles with. It's like fitting a square peg in a round hole. John is expecting Dean to dig up a cemetery's worth of buried memories and ideals, and Dean can't simply relearn to be a person overnight. Not when everything in him urges something completely different.

Part of him knows who and what he used to be, but a larger part of him rejects it. It's like the old human Dean is the nerdy kid in gym, and this new version is the too cool jock that would sooner throw dodgeballs at the original than to pick him to play on the same team.

The analogy sparks something. A memory, perhaps. The shrill sound of air blowing through a whistle, the squeaking of soles on a hard gym floor, a basketball bouncing, teens shoving. The smell of rubber and sweat and-

-and Dean remembers ditching gym class to meet up with a girl named Stacy who'd been so excited to pull him into the janitor's closet; she guides one of his hands to her breasts and confesses how she'd 'never done this with anyone before.'

And with that memory, Dean wants to both laugh and cry, because it's so stupidly normal, and he can picture it so clearly. He can almost remember the exact color of her bra strap and the feel of the lace-lined cups that formed around her shapely bosom. The memory is sharp and clear, but he watches it with a detached view. He can practically see himself going through the motions, saying all the right things and promising to take it slow. But it's like watching a stranger. Someone else wearing his skin and, at the last moment, telling young Stacy that he'd rather just talk.

He lied, said that he was nervous, and fought back a smile when she looked relieved and pulled her clothes on faster than they'd come off.

She asked him about his family, and he was all too happy to go on about his brother.

Sam. Sam. Sam. Sammy.

Sam's such a good kid, a great student, and an annoying little brother. Sam gets all A's. Sam eats like a horse and tends to be a neat freak. Sam is trying out some hippie vegan diet.

Then: _What about your mom and dad? You never talk about them, Dean._

_"My mom..." she died "is an angel. Beautiful. And she makes the best rice and tomato soup." pause for a breath "And my dad..." he's been gone for almost two weeks "is pretty cool. Wears a leather jacket, has the coolest car, likes good music, and... he's a hero."  
_

He didn't outright lie, then, but he wasn't honest either. He simply told her what she wanted to hear, because no high school girl wants a boyfriend who's too honest and raw and waist-deep in family drama and supernatural elements.

She didn't want the real Dean; she wanted an _acceptable version_ of him.

The same could be said for every other person Dean has ever met.

This is especially the case for his father, one Mister John Winchester.

The man looks at Dean with more expectation than approval, and Dean feels like he's wading through quicksand in his efforts to appease him. But he's trying. And the fact that John hasn't run off yet is proof enough that Dean is doing something right. Surely.

John's bags are packed. Dean knows. He's not stupid. He knows what it means when people pack up and put a lot of things in a vehicle. John is going to leave. That fact is unsettling, and Dean wants to dig his nails into John and hold on for as long as he can.

He tries to focus and pay attention when John's around. It's like a torch is lit within him, and everything becomes clearer. The need to gain this man's approval is so strong, his insides ache with desire.

He stands a little straighter. Makes eye contact. Deciphers a number of commands and performs when demanded.

And with that, John seems a bit more at ease. Despite being ready to run off and chase a hunt he's been itching for, John doesn't leave right away. Instead, he waits; he stops to think, mainly about Dean and their time together.

He thinks about glimpses he's caught that keep hope alive. Here and there, signs of some cognition. Because, Dean isn't always a mindless lump of human-shaped hound. It's easy to think that as the case, but there are flickers of something else: something familiar and strong and entirely _Dean_.

John acknowledges that, on some days, there's an awareness in the way Dean behaves; it's in the way his eyes sharpen, wary, like he's waiting for something to slither out of the shadows and come for him. The boy's waiting for something, expecting it.

For the most part, things seem fine though. No real threat ever seems to come, and John again decides that maybe his time would be best spent elsewhere. He plans to leave. When progress with Dean reaches a disappointing standstill, he wants to go. Move on. Head somewhere he can actually do some good. Save people. The whole hunter-shtick he's been at for years.

He's gonna go. He needs to. There are plans in the making, his Journal full of dates and locations and omens and clever little side notes.

As the threat and pending occurrence of John's departure looms, Dean comes a little more unhinged, and the changes are abrupt enough to catch everyone's attention.

He starts refusing the morning trips to the diner that he usually takes with Bobby, instead opting sit in on the couch in front of the tv, watching some sitcom or another, and laughing when the faux audience directs him to laugh because something is funny, and the producers of the show want the viewers to know just how funny it is. This way, Dean learns. He can stare at the tv, laugh when prompted, and it's an almost-normal thing to do.

Sometimes, when he watches tv, Sam sits next to him, usually with a book or laptop. Sam talks to him, calls him 'buddy,' and asks about the show.

Dean never answers, but when someone says something risque or falls in a comical way, he points at the tv and laughs, and Sam laughs too.

So, maybe it is funny.

Dean just doesn't understand why it's supposedly hilarious enough to warrant the ridiculous sound.

John sits with him a time or two, and Dean gets bold enough to pick up the remote and tap a button to flip through a few channels. To show off. To show John that he is capable of doing something that everyone else does.

He waits for John's praise. Waits for the man to tell him when he's done something well, but feedback is slim to none, and Dean's own frustration and disappointment builds up over a course of time.

He gets angry. And he throws the remote. It crashes into the tv screen and it spiderwebs into a mosaic.

John is on him in a flash, grabbing the wrist of the hand Dean had used to throw the remote.

John yells and yells, loud and angry, eyes dark and rimmed with dark circles, breath heavy with last night's beer and the negligence of oral hygiene.

And Dean accepts the uncomfortably tight grip on his wrist. He accepts the yelling. He even allows himself to smile a little.

Because, even negative attention is better than not enough attention.

When John's words die down and he's said his piece, he releases Dean, and Dean stands a little straighter and offers a little grin, like he's proud of himself and maybe a little smug.

There's a spark. The expression and the way he cocks a hip, it's all Dean. He's a few snarky comments away from being just the way his dad remembers, and John wants to be pissed but finds himself clapping a hand on Dean's shoulder and just letting him off the hook.

"You're an obnoxious little shit, Dean. Tighten up that attitude, alright?"

Dean nods, but he can't be entirely sure what he's agreeing to. The hand on his shoulder is a warm and welcoming weight, and he feels like he's won the lottery.

John speculates, but he tries not to overthink what he's taking for a good sign.

Looking at Dean, John wants to believe his son is coming back. Slowly. In pieces. But still resembling his former self.

John is trying. Instead of fleeing right away- instead of running away- he's really trying to work with his boy. He's not sure he's doing anything right, and maybe he's failing, but he's there. And Dean is responding to his presence in a way he thinks is positive.

...

Dean spends a fair amount of time with John after that. They go for walks. They take the Impala for a drive now and then. John is full of pride when he slips in the passenger's seat and Dean gets in the driver's side.

Dean's been doing so well with step-by-step instructions.

Grips the wheel and turns the key.

For a moment, John has his boy back.

It's not some supernatural bloodhound at his side; it's the young man he raised.

The joy is short lived, however, when Dean's breath quickens and his teeth clench tightly. He draws his hands away from the wheel as if it had burned him.

Concerned, John reaches over to kill the engine before regarding his son.

"Too much, too soon?" he cautioned, but the words fall on deaf ears.

Dean smells the leather interior and the little pine air freshener. He's seated in the driver's side, and his hands were folding over the wheel in a way that was almost painfully familiar. It feels like home, but his home burned away.

He remembers hopping from motel room to motel room, school to school, but the Impala was always there.

He remembers that much.

He remembers Sammy asking for the last bowl of Lucky Charms, and he remembers how angry John got when Dean had left Sammy all by himself so he could sneak off to the arcade for a little while.

Dean's pressing back against the seat, knees drawing up and allowing him to slip into a fetal position while he trembles.

The memories hit him too hard, too fast, and he's not sure if he wants them all back or all gone.

John's hands find Dean's shoulders and one moves to rub soothing circles on his back. "Dean, talk to me. Please." His voice is tinged with worry as he speaks.

John doesn't expect an answer. Dean just doesn't talk anymore.

So, it's a confusing surprise when he hears a shaky utterance of:

"S-Sammy..."

Taken aback, John doesn't even have to think before he pulls Dean in for a hug.

Dean allows the embrace, and it's warm, but he's still terrified. Something in him is stirring and it feels like it's trying to eat its way out of him. His senses fog over. He smells sulfur, thick, like it's caked in his nose, and he chokes on a sob before he even realizes that he's crying.

John continues to hold Dean close but carefully opens the car door and gets both himself and Dean out. He hefts his son up into his arms and carries him as if Dean's just a small boy.

John tries to be calm and careful as he carries Dean the short trek back to Bobby's, and all the while, Dean is muttering between hitched breaths:

"Sammy, Sammy, S-Sammy," the name spilling out hoarsely, like a broken prayer.

"Saaaam!" John yells, loudly, as he nears Singer's residence. "Sam!"

It takes a minute, but the door flies open and Sam ambles out with Bobby hot on his heels, the elder man in possession of a shotgun while Sam is ready with the words of an exorcism setting on the back of his tongue. They are greeted with the sight of Dean clinging onto John and fiercely repeating the endearment that is Sam's name.

Then, the sound of creaking.

A rusty gate opening.

In the distance, angry thunder, a cloud of smoke whirling and coming closer.

"SammySammySammy" comes faster and faster, raising in pitch as Dean all but claws at John for stability and ends up raking his chewed up nails across his fathers face, scraping the skin just enough to allow blood to bead along the older Winchester's cheek.

For the first time in a long time, John is afraid.

A demon took Mary's life. Then, a demon took Dean's humanity. How much more could he stand to lose?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd.  
> -This is John and Dean's chapter.  
> -Sam gets the next chapter.  
> As we go along, we'll learn more on Bloodhounds and what's going on with Dean.

**Author's Note:**

> Ongoing story/series, featuring 'Bloodhound Dean.'  
> Don't forget to check out the newly added cover art, labeled as the 2nd work in the series.  
> Comments and Kudos are appreciated. Suggestions are welcome and will be considered.


End file.
